
Class JHa3jt£. 
Book ,AgT3 

CopyrightN«,J10i_ 

COPyRIGHT DEPOSm 



THE PARCHMENT 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

R. A. S, WADE 



CHRISTMAS, J908 

COCHRANE PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK 



UBfiARY of CONGRESS 
Two Capies Received 

DEC 26 1908 

CopyrignL Entry 

CLASS G<. ^ \Xc, N- 

COPY 8. 



PS3S15 

.t\zT3 



Copjrright, 1908, by 
COCHRANE PUBLISHING CO. 



FOREWORD. 

This volume was written, not for publication, but to 
while away the idle hours spent in caring for an invalid 
companion. At the solicitation of a gentleman in the 
East, himself an author well known in literary circles and 
among scholars throughout the country as a forceful 
writer of good books, I decided to publish it. The in- 
dulgence of the reader is therefore asked inasmuch as the 
book is published largely for circulation among personal 
friends. 

R. A. S. WADE. 

Echo Park Ave. and Cerro Gordo St., 

Los Angeles, Cal. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Parchment 7 

Witchaire and Matilde 41 

Jess and I 89 

A Night in 1865 98 

A Visitor's Story 105 

Old Sumach 112 

The Home on the Hill 119 

Christmas Present 126 

The Old Dinner Horn 128 

The Columns 131 

The Critic 134 

John of Tyrone 136 

La Cafiada 139 

Rachel 142 

The Dreamer 144 

Santa Ana Commandery, K. T 145 

Tom 146 



THE PARCHMENT. 



One day there came in from the wady 
A man that was taken with cramp, 
Who asked for some ginger and toddy 
And rested awhile in the camp. 
And tied on his back 
He carried a pack 
And slightly resembled a tramp. 



We found him a classical scholar 

And learned in lore of the East, 
And though he seemed pressed for a dollar 
His talk was an erudite feast, 
His words were but few 
And thrilled us quite through. 
And sorry we were when he ceased. 



He'd toiled in a Japanese college, 

And taught the unspeakable Turk, 
Had sought with the Brahman for knowledge 
And preached to the lost in the kirk, 
. And now with the aid 
Of fellahs and spade 
Was down there in Egypt at work. 

7 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He said in a brief explanation 
That he with a few fellaheen 
Was making a small excavation, 
And, all undisturbed and serene, 
He said he had found 
Some things in the ground 
That no modern scholar had seen. 



Out there on the side of the wady 

Within a deserted old tomb, 
Wrapped up with a mummified body 
His fortune it was to exhume 
A parchment that told 
A story of old 
When Joseph's fair cheeks were in bloom. 

The stranger then further related, 

A thing he regretted to own, 
That but a small part was translated, 
Since he was at work and alone; 
The translation made 
Was done without aid 
Of key or the Rosetta Stone. 

And then upon our invitation 
He kindly consented to read 
A part of his recent translation, 
And we very gladly gave heed; 
His voice, soft and clear, 
Was pleasant to hear. 
And thrilling the story indeed. 

8 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The record was wrapped with the body 

And buried, the chronicle said, 
Out there by the desolate wady 

Where outlaws and robbers had fled, 
To publish the tale 
Where lost spirits wail 
And weep with the criminal dead. 

The parchment contained the proceedings, 

The records and written reports. 
The oaths and attorneys' old pleadings. 
Of one of King Pharaoh's old courts, 
The man that was dead 
Commanded, it said, 
The guards and frontier towns, or forts. 

Before Jacob fled to Chaldea 

Where tarried his fathers of old, 
A sister of Rachel and Leah 
Was stolen away, we are told, 
And, bartered the while, 
At last on the Nile 
To young Potipherah was sold. 

As all of the daughters of Terah 

Divinely, surpassingly fair, 
She dwelt with the young Potipherah 
Adopted, a sister, an heir, 
So lovely, so good,^ 
Transcendent she stood 
The dominant influence there. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

His father, his mother, his sister 

Each worshipped the beautiful maid, 
No heart in their home could resist her; 
So gentle, so winsome, so staid, 
The older she grew, 
Still faithful and true. 
More helpful the part that she played. 

She kept her Semitic name, Nerah, 
And, filled with the spirit divine, 
She worshipped the God of old Terah 
And openly bowed at his shrine; 
She held to the right, 
She walked in the light. 
Inspiring a spirit benign. 

And when the Chaldean, fair Nerah, 

Was grown to young woman's estate, 
She married the young Potipherah 
And moved with the proud and the great, 
And Laban's fair child. 
So gentle and mild, 
Was linked with the Israelites' fate. 

Long years were gone by and fair Nerah 

Herself had a dausrhter full grown. 
And reared in the faith of old Terah 
Well burgeoned the seed that was sown, 
And Asenath grew 
Both faithful and true. 
Her mother's strong faith was her own. 

10 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Potipherah and his younger brother, 

Called Potiphar, chief of the guard, 
Were strongly attached to each other 
In friendship that never was marred; 
And year after year 
Their houses stood near, 
In truth they both stood in one yard. 

The maid and her beautiful mother 
Were often with Potiphar's wife, 
The women grew near to each other 
And lived without envy or strife; 
Unclouded their sky 
As moments rolled by, 
And calm and contented their life. 



As time was thus passing unheeded 

And turning old months into new, 
It happened that Potiphar needed 
A servant trustworthy and true. 
And Asenath said, 
Ere many days sped 
She'd find him a man that would do. 



She knew not the burden of sorrow 
Her little hands quickly would lift. 
She reckoned not that on the morrow 
Her hands would confer a great gift 
On one who was sad, 
A poor captive lad, 
And rend his dark sky with a rift. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

There came to their home in the morning 

Some wandering sons of the plain, 
Who kindness and tenderness scorning 
Sold men as if cattle for gain, 
Unheeding their cries 
Their tears and their sighs, 
And recked not and stopped not at pain. 

Dust-covered from many days' faring, 

They oftered to barter for gold 
A youth all but princely in bearing 
And more than heroic in mold; 
Of beauty divine, 
Expression benign. 
He passed to the mart to be sold. 

The maiden requested permission 
To question the beautiful youth 
And learn for herself his position 
Regarding the subject of truth, 
But questioned in vain 
For soon it was plain 
He knew not her language, in sooth. 

She questioned him then in Chaldean 

And found to her joyful surprise 
That tongue and the old Aramean 
Used fluently in his replies. 
And ably the youth 
Discoursed upon truth, 
And showed himself prudent and wise. 

12 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Then privately she and her mother 

Communed with the stranger apart, 
Who there as they talked to each other 
Revealed all the thoughts of his heart, 
With sobs and with tears 
They talked of old years, 
Down there by the slave-dealers' mart. 

Then back to the rovers they hasted 
And paid for the captive in gold, 
And then not a moment they wasted 
Till all of his story was told. 
Then kissed they the lad 
And all were made glad, 
There where the young captive was sold. 

And Potiphar's troubles were over. 

His woes were thus brought to an end, 
The lad that he bought from the rover 
Became both his servant and friend; 
And Potiphar knew 
One faithful and true 
On whom he could safely depend. 

The story the stranger related 

Though briefly and hastily told 
While slave-dealing Tshmaelites waited 
To gather their harvest of gold, 
Was heard with surprise 
And tear-bedimmed eyes, 
A tale of his fathers of old. 

13 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He told the young maiden and Nerah 

His father and mother were true 

Descendants direct from old Terah 

And no other faith ever knew, 

Wherever they trod, 

Than faith in his God, 

In God and his promises too. 

His mother was Nerah's own sister, 

Though this the youth then did not know, 
His father had met her and kissed her 
In youth, in the long, long ago, 
Had bought her with tears 
And labor of years, 
Down where the Chaldean streams flow. 

And now on the Canaanite mountains 

And over the valley and plain 
His flocks came to drink at the fountains 
And fed on the pastures and grain, 
But loss of his wife 
Had saddened his life, 
And wealth brought its treasures in vain. 

But basely and heartlessly taken 
Away from his father and sold 
The lad seemed forlorn and forsaken 
And wept as the story he told, 
But banished his fears. 
His grief and his tears 
When bought with his kinswoman's gold. 

14 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And Nerah then hastily told him 

That she was old Laban's lost child, 
That kindly her arms would enfold him. 
And said in tones gentle and mild 
That Israel's Guide 
Would walk by his side 
While he kept his ways undefiled. 

The Hebrew, the maid and her mother 

Communed for a time all alone, 
And strengthened the faith of each other 
In Israel's God and their own, 
With infinite joy 
Unmixed with alloy 
They thanked him for kindnesses shown. 

Then Nerah said God would deliver 
The youth from his service in time. 
Her faith in the Infinite Giver 
Was boundless, unshaken, sublime. 
His travail for truth 
Might come to the youth 
When young, or might come in his prime. 

If God ever graciously blessed him 
As all of his fathers were blessed 
Then God in his own time would test him 
With tests he applied to the best. 
But now in the strife 
And battle of life 
He bravely must wait for the test. 

15 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Now humbly discharging his duty, 
Obscure or despised he must go, 
Shut out from earth's glory and beauty 
Denial and toil he must know, 
But there in his toil, 
In strife and turmoil, 
A greater than Pharaoh might grow. 

Years passed and the ties were unbroken, 
The maid and the lad were both grown, 
And sweet, tender vows had been spoken 
As years had so happily flown. 
The older they grew 
The better they knew 
The Jahveh their fathers had known. 

Most precious and helpful to Nerah, 
The Hebrew was part of her life, 
A Nestor to old Potipherah 

He stayed him in seasons of strife. 
And, faultless and free, 
He came thus to be 
The idol of Potiphar's wife. 

Her standard of moral uprightness 

Was not very high at the best. 
And often impelled by her lightness 
A sinful proposal she pressed 
Upon the fair youth 
Who lived for the truth 
And spurned her imprudent request. 

i6 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And once she so strongly persisted 

And held to his garment and plead, 
That when he so wisely resisted, 
Abandoned his garment and fled, 
She, being thus spurned. 
Maliciously turned 
And sought his destruction instead. 

She made up a false accusation 

And charged the young Hebrew with crime. 
And, being above him in station, 
His death was but matter of time. 
And thus was the youth. 
Whose life was a truth. 
To perish ere reaching his prime. 



But man in his folly proposes 

And fits on his temples a crown. 
And God in his wisdom disposes. 
And man's earthly castles go down ; 
And thus a fair maid 
Such wild havoc played 
With Potiphar's wife's deadly frown. 

The maiden was playfully hidden, 

Concealed by a curtain or bed, 
And thus she was present unbidden 
And heard every word that was said. 
She saw the brave youth 
Stand up for the truth 
And follow where probity led. 

17 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The court at the examination 

Allowed the fair maid to appear, 
But held that the corroboration 
Was not yet sufficiently clear; 
And forthwith the court, 
So says the report, 
Passed sentence for many a year. 

Though saved from destruction, still Nerah 

Was anxious to set the lad free, 
And quickly induced Potipherah 
In all of her plans to agree. 
And forthwith applied 
To have the case tried 
Where judges would hear a just plea. 

When many a sun had arisen 

The lawyers still fought for delay. 
The Hebrew still languished in prison 
And hope almost vanished away. 
When days grew to years 
Mid sadness and tears 
Then faith turned their night into day. 

One night as the maiden lay sleeping. 

An angel appeared to her there 
And told her that vain was her weeping, 
While God in his tenderest care 
Would guide the fair youth 
Through ways of all truth 
And she in his glory would share. 

i8 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

That man in his blindness and weakness 

Has only to follow his guide, 

Obeying in kindness and meekness 

The teaching that God has supplied, 

That God in his might 

Would guide him aright 

If man in true faith would abide. 



That service and honor and glory 

Would come to the lad all his days, 
That earth would resound with his story 
And nations would honor and praise 
The Israelite youth 
Who stood for the truth 
Delighting to walk in its ways. 

The women then sweetly confided 

Their ways unto Israel's God 
Who gently and patiently guided 

Their feet where their fathers had trod, 
And then many days 
They walked in his ways 
And meekly passed under the rod. 

Then pausing, the man from the wady, 

Who later we learned was a Scot, 
Requested a small glass of toddy 
And seemed to prefer it quite hot; 
Resuming, he said 
The portion just read 
Was chosen by chance on the spot. 

19 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Another part lately translated 

Pertained to a more recent date, 
And told us a story, he stated, 
Relating to Israel's fate, 
A tale of romance 
Which brought by mere chance 
Great blessings to Pharaoh's old state. 

And when we insistently pleaded, 

Though fearing that nought would avail. 
The Scot very kindly proceeded 
To read the romantic old tale 
Made up of reports 
From Pharaoh's old courts. 
Authentic in every detail. 

A youth of remarkable beauty. 

Unusual kindness of heart. 
Heroic devotion to duty, 

And practiced somewhat in each art. 
Was falsely accused 
And sorely misused 
And put in the prison apart. 

He quickly attracted the keeper; 

His spirit, so free and so kind. 

Impressed itself deeper and deeper. 

His noble and generous mind 

Broke barriers away, 

Established its sway. 

And triumphed where grossly maligned. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Ere long the fair youth had arisen, 

Promoted, the chronicle said, 
And placed over all in the prison, 
Almost the executive head, 
While keeper and kept 
In confidence slept, 
And days and nights joyfully sped. 

One day there arrived at the prison 

A lovely, a beautiful boy. 
Another bright star had arisen 
Diffusing new light and new joy; 
He bore on his ring 
The seal of the king 
And seemed without spot or alloy. 



So pure and so fair his complexion. 
So lustrous and dreamy his eyes, 
His manners refined to perfection. 
He seemed so surpassingly wise, 
A fountain of light 
By day and by night. 
He seemed as one born in the skies. 



Almost fully grown and well rounded. 
His face seemed mature in each line, 
His voice in sweet cadence abounded. 
His bearing appeared quite divine ; 
With vision so fair 
A visitor there, 
No prisoner need to repine. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The boy with a tender persistence 

Endeavored to cling to the youth, 
But he kept the boy at a distance, 
Though gently and kindly, in truth ; 
He held him at bay. 
As children at play. 
Without any semblance of ruth. 

When moon after moon had arisen 

And sweetly the moments gone by, 
The boy lingered on in the prison 
With never a grief or a sigh, 
The youth and the boy 
Brought brightness and joy. 
And beauty bloomed while they were nigh. 

One night there was heard a commotion 

As if a wild storm rent the sky, 
As if on the tempest-wracked ocean 
The god of destruction rode by, 
With threatening roar 
It swept to the door 
With shouts that the guilty should die. 

Still on the marauders came sweeping, 

Disturbing the stillness of night. 

To where the young Hebrew was sleeping 

And dreaming of scenes of delight, 

They burst down the door, 

They paused on the floor. 

But only the youth was in sight. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Search on," cried the leader, confounded, 

"Search on till the culprit is found, 
And, men, keep the prison surrounded, 
And see that the Hebrew is bound; 
This ignoble strife 
Will cost him his life," 
And darkly the officer frowned. 

There where the young Hebrew was lying 

Bound hand and foot there on the bed, 
While sadly his father was sighing 
And mourning his Joseph as dead. 
With foreboding fears 
With sobs and with tears. 
The handsome Egyptian was led. 

There where the young Hebrew was lying. 

The officer's keen weapon sped. 
The fair young Egyptian was dying. 
There blood by a husband was shed, 
And Potiphar's wife 
Surrendered her life 
For passions her folly had bred. 

While hotly his anger was burning 

He turned where the young Hebrew lay. 
He turned, but in vain was his turning, 
The king's baker stood in the way. 
Whose weapon sped well 
And Potiphar fell 
And perished himself in the fray. 

23 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Then out by the desolate wady 

They dug in the desert a tomb. 
And buried there Potiphar's body 
Within the deep shadows and gloom; 
And Potiphar slept 
While Israel wept, 
And Pharaohs went on to their doom. 



The parchment was greatly extended. 

The cloth being partly removed, 
And later events were appended, 
As further inquiry had proved, 
As centuries sped 
That tale of the dead 
Grew longer whene'er it behooved. 

Thus out by the desolate wady 
Our genial and erudite friend 
Recovered with Potiphar's body 
A storehouse of lore without end, 
The oaths and reports, 
The records of courts 
On which the whole world could depend.' 



One Setis, a mighty Egyptian, 

Who sometimes was given to strife 
And baseness of every description, 
A brother of Potiphar's wife, 
Now entered the race 
For Potiphar's place 
And soon was appointed for life. 

24 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Unprincipled, genial and charming, 

His counsel was sought by the great, 
And conquering foes by disarming 
He came to great power in the state, 
And entered the race 
For Potiphar's place 
For reasons I now shall relate. 

Quite often in Potiphar's dwelling, 
As years had passed wearily by, 
Young Setis' affection was welling 
And causing him vainly to sigh. 
But all was for nought, 
For vainly he sought 
The maid when the Hebrew was nigh. 

All vainly his power he pleaded, 

His friends and his place in the state, 
His passion and all were unheeded. 

His name with the proud and the great. 
For noble and good 
Fair Asenath stood 
United with Israel's fate. 



He pleaded his passion with Nerah, 
Sought vainly to purchase her aid. 
He pleaded with old Potipherah 
And numberless overtures made. 
But nought would avail. 
He tried but to fail, 
Then schemings far deeper were laid. 

25 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He saw thus in spite of his scheming 

His long cherished hope rendered void, 

And though undisturbed in the seeming 

Most grievously he was annoyed 

And vowed not to fail ; 

One thing would avail, 

The Israelite must be destroyed. 

To Setis was due the inception 

Of legalized murder and strife, 
Of cruel and wicked deception 
Attempted by Potiphar's wife, 
He sought to destroy 
The Israelite boy. 
To rob him of lover and life. 



He constantly sought for occasion 

Through villainous legerdemain. 

Through treacherous, artful evasion 

His murderous purpose to gain, 

No bribes would avail, 

He sought but to fail, 

He made every effort in vain. 

When Potiphar finally perished, 

He quietly bided his time, 
Well knowing the hopes he had cherished 
Would presently come to their prime, 
And winning the race 
For Potiphar's place 
Would help him to cover the crime. 

26 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

If he could but manage to cover 

The part that he took in the deed 
The maiden bereft of her lover 

His own ardent wooing would heed, 
No more in distress 
His cause he would press, 
But warmly, successfully plead. 

Then Setis selected a keeper 

On whom he could safely rely. 

And carried his scheming still deeper. 

Determined the Hebrew should die. 

He shortly should feel 

"Jhe piercing of steel 

And fettered in iron should lie. 

A helot, a man of discretion, 

By nature repulsive and cold, 
Who butchered men as a profession 
And infants in arms, we are told. 
Was called to their aid 
And lavishly paid 
To murder the Hebrew for gold. 

His presence was quickly detected, 
The prisoners, Hebrew and all, 
His sinister purpose suspected 

But knew not where evil would fall; 
They fashioned a plan 
That bound every man 
To muster on hearing a call. 

27 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

When Asenath sadly was weeping 

At midnight when stars lit the sky, 
When all in the prison were sleeping 
As silently time drifted by, 
There rose on the air 
A wail of despair, 
A plaintive, a piteous cry. 

The prisoners came in their fury 

And instantly broke in the door. 
And there without justice or jury 
They slaughtered the two on the floor, 
The old records tell 
The helot first fell, 
The keeper then weltered in gore. 

Then tenderly, quickly withdrawing 

The steel that had pierced to the bone, 
And patiently, painfully sawing 
The iron that fettered him prone, 
They rescued again 
The purest of men, 
The peer of the King on his throne. 

No longer in byways of duty 
The buffeted victim of fate, 
But clothed in all honor and beauty. 
The peer of the proud and the great. 
Commended and praised. 
The Hebrew was raised 
For services rendered the state. 

28 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And known as the Hebrew no longer 
But courteously called by his name, 
Young Joseph grew stronger and stronger 
As honors and eminence came; 
And faithful and true 
More mighty he grew, 
Till nations soon heard of his fame. 

The Hebrew, exalted in station, 

And just in the prime of his life, 
Unconsciously plunged the whole nation 
In friendly and generous strife; 
The King and the court, 
So says the report, 
Desired to choose him a wife. 



The council at most recommended. 

Appointments were made by the King, 
All things on the monarch depended 
His stamp and the seal of his ring. 
But when he approved 
The law stood unmoved. 
By all that the nation could bring. 

Like laws of the Medes and the Persians 

The word of the monarch must stand. 
No logical, legal incursions 

Could wrest divine right from his hand, 
No law was revoked 
In council convoked, 
His word was the law of the land, 

29 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

It chanced at the time of our story, 

The courtiers both gay and sedate, 
When Joseph was come to his glory 
Were neither too good nor too great 
To seek their own end 
Then falsely pretend 
They sought but the good of the state. 

And standing still closer together 

A circle, a powerful few, 
Who strengthened themselves with a tether 
And swore to their band to be true. 
Secured the King's ear, 
And thus without fear 
Could carry their selfish plans through. 

And foremost among the false leaders 

Was Setis, as false as the rest. 
The shrewdest of all the false pleaders 
His pleading he cogently pressed, 
And shrewdly he wrought 
The purpose he sought 
And rarely a failure confessed. 

With subtilty Setis incited 

This circle to say to the King 
That they had been lately invited 
A suitable lady to bring. 

And having thus wrought 
They loyally sought 
His stamp and the seal of his ring. 

30 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

This jugglery being effected, 

The King having lent them his aid, 
The scheming cabal, unsuspected, 
Their game being skillfully played. 
Declared by decree 
The nuptials should be 
No longer than three days delayed. 

The lady the courtiers selected, 

Though young and as fair as a queen, 
Was worthy and highly respected. 
Intelligent, genial, serene. 
And bright as the day 
When blossoming May 
Is decked in her garlands of green. 

They brought her in all of her beauty, 

When gladsome and sweet was her voice, 
Regardless of Joseph's great duty, 
Neglecting the maid of his choice, 
And by a decree 
This false coterie 
Enjoined them to wed and rejoice. 

Three days of disturbed preparation, 

How mournfully, sadly they fled. 

Three days of extreme perturbation. 

How painfully, quickly they sped; 

The victim of fate, 

Compelled by the state, 

The viceroy of Egypt must wed, 

31 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The night was ablaze with the function 
Attended by Egypt's elite, 
The time had arrived for the unction ; 
The nuptials were almost complete 
When passing the door 
Amid an uproar 
A lawyer pressed in from the street. 

He quickly suspended the function 

By fearlessly waving his hand, 
He read to the priest an injunction 
Approved as the law of the land, 
A herald was sought, 
A notary brought. 
And witnesses called to the stand. 



The lawyer unfolded a story 

Begun in misdeeds and deceit 
Ere Joseph had come to his glory, 
Developed and almost complete. 
Of villainous crime 
Then come to its prime 
Which it was his aim to defeat. 

The transcripts and all affirmations 

The proofs in the case would demand. 
Decisions and all confirmations 
And witnesses all were at hand. 
If contest were made 
Or answer delayed 
The present injunction must stand. 

32 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The story the lawyer recited 

That night to the young and the fair^ 
The bride elect being affrighted 
As crime after crime was laid bare, 
I now shall unfold, 
Save what has been told. 
Though he told the whole of it there. 

He told them of Setis* relation, 
To efforts of Potiphar's wife 
To blacken the fair reputation 
And even to threaten the life 
Of Joseph, the youth 
Who lived for the truth 
And knew not and thought not of strife. 

Of Setis' undying affection 

So often declared to the maid. 
Of Asenath's constant rejection, 
He told the part Setis had played 
When keeper and knave. 
The murderous slave. 
The Hebrew's destruction assayed. 

He showed that at his instigation 

The secret cabal had agreed 
To all the misrepresentation 

That led the good King to proceed 
In haste to approve 
Their villainous move 
And sanction what they had decreed. 

33 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

To win the fair daughter of Nerah 

He cozzened the small and the great. 
To circumvent old Potipherah, 

He used the whole power of the state. 
He plainly had said 
H Joseph were wed 
He quickly would settle his fate. 

With calmness and determination 

The lawyer then covered his ground. 
And showed in a long explanation 
That evidence recently found 
Affected his cause, 
Repealed some old laws 
And made Joseph's marriage unsound. 

He said as an active attorney 

Sometimes with the lowly he wept, 
And often had gone on a journey 
To where the young Joseph was kept. 
And sometimes he stayed, 
By business delayed, 
And oft in the prison had slept. 

While there he had met an assistant 

Once trusted in Potiphar's home, 
Who, though rather formal and distant, 
Was trusted from basement to dome. 
And, lowly in birth, 
Was loved for his worth 
Prom dawn till the falling of gloam. 

34 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

At length this old man had arisen 

Till day and night safely he kept 

The records and keys of the prison, 

And oft while the prisoners slept 

By glimmering light 

He read through the night, 

Then softly to slumber he crept. 

The records then in his possession. 

Kept safe from the damp and the mould, 
Held many a secret confession 
That never to man had been told. 
And safely concealed 
Were never revealed 
For payment of silver or gold. 

Dark deeds were held safe in their keeping. 

Too bloody and baleful to tell, 
Deeds burdened with sorrow and weeping. 
The shroud and the funeral knell, 
The keeper well knew 
Should he prove untrue 
His story that record would swell. 

So well were the records protected, . , 

So safely these relics concealed, 
That torture or death was expected 
By those who their secrets revealed; 
This law of the land, 
Long destined to stand, 
Had never been changed or repealed. 

35 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

From Joseph this aged assistant 

Had heard of the Israelite God, 
And faithful and true and consistent 
In wisdom's fair pathway he trod, 
And out of this way- 
He never would stray 
But ever straight onward he plod. 

He knew the fair maiden and Nerah 

And often had eaten their bread ; 

Ofttimes to the daughters of Terah 

For comfort and strength he had fled, 

And often he prayed 

That yet he might aid 

The maiden and Joseph to wed. 

He lately came into possession 

Of facts which a lawyer had told 
When making a dying confession 
Then almost a century old. 
That made a law void 
When fraud was employed 
Or courtiers corrupted with gold. 

These facts appertained to decisions 

The courtiers and King had suppressed, 
And hence to the divers misprisions 

Where courtiers and King had transgressed. 
Which facts, brought to light. 
Impaired Divine right 
Where bribing or fraud was confessed. 

36 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

These facts had been fully attested, 

The evidence all was at hand, 
Collateral facts were digested, 
The jurists' decision must stand, 
Decrees were made void 
When fraud was employed, 
This law was the law of the land. 



Three days since a courtier's confession 

Was made in the prison alone, 
And then in the lawyer's possession, 
In which the false courtier had shown 
That their coterie 
Had framed the decree 
Where fraud and collusion were known. 



When thus the religious old keeper 

Saw Setis engendering strife 
And laying plots deeper and deeper 
To get the young maid for a wife, 
He straightway revealed 
What should be concealed 
And thereby endangered his life. 

He went to the maiden and Nerah, 

Friends truest when danger was nigh. 
Consulted the priest Potipherah, 
And then without tremor or sigh 
The secrets betrayed, 
Then told the fair maid 
For Joseph and her he would die. 

37 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And while the old man was beheaded 

And suffered a true martyr's fate 
To save her from being thus wedded 
To one most ignoble but great, 
Fair Asenath sought 
The lawyer who brought 
An action enjoining the state. 

His sympathy soon was enlisted 

And quickly he came to her aid, 
And faithfully, nobly persisted 

Till searches and transcripts were made ; 
Three strenuous days 
In numberless ways 
His zeal in her case was displayed. 

The evidence all was submitted, 
The argument finally closed, 
Moreover, as greatly befitted, 
The villain was fully exposed. 
The victims were spared. 
The guests were prepared 
For scenes that were quickly transposed. 

The color had suddenly faded 
From Setis' intelligent face. 
And quickly deposed and degraded 
With ail his cabal in disgrace 
He entered once more 
His own prison door 
But went to a criminal's place. 

38 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The maid the cabal had selected 

To be a compulsory bride 
Was neither chagrined nor dejected 
When suddenly cast to one side, 
But quickly displayed 
Regret for the maid 
Whose faith had so sorely been tried. 



And then she so kindly requested 

That Asenath quickly be brought, 
Whose love was so cruelly tested, 
Her plighted vow so set at nought, 
That there in their sight 
Her wrongs be set right 
Ere further woes haply be wrought. 

Mid visions of beauty and splendor 

Where Nerah's sweet daughter was led, 
Mid hearts that were loving and tender, 
With blessings invoked on his head 
To Asenath there 
So lovely and fair 
The viceroy of Egypt was wed. 

Then hearing his burden of duty. 

Wherever was sorrow or sigh, 
The herald of sweetness and beauty, 
The friend of the low and the high, 
Again and again 
This man among men 
All happy and helpful went by. 

39 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Triumphantly, faithfully, Nerah 

And Asenath patiently trod 
The path that the children of Terah 
Had walked in the ways of their God, 
In ways that were new, 
As faithful and true 
As when they passed under the rod. 



40 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



WITCHAIRE AND MATILDE. 

(From The Romance of History.) 

Across the frontier into Brittany faring, 

Some time in the autumn, eight hundred eighteen 
Where Morvan his army for war was preparing, 
A party of bold Prankish horsemen were seen, 
Their leader, Witchaire, 
Was sturdy and fair, 
His character noble, his temper serene. 

Their progress was stopped by the interposition 

Of forest and jungle, and river, and brake. 
The country, so primitive in its condition 
That steel-armored troopers no progress could make, 
Was covered with logs 
And treacherous bogs, 
With hidden canals or a half hidden lake. 

Dismounting and saying, "Farewell till the morrow!" 
Witchaire bade his men to encamp where they stood. 
And fearing his quest would end only in sorrow 
He silently started alone through the wood; 
On through his demesne 
He sped to the scene 
Where he was to win back a king if he could. 

41 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Count Morvan of Brittany, lately elected 

As king by the Bretons, had rashly rebelled, 
All offers of pardon from Louis rejected, 

His strongholds and castles had stubbornly held; 
Infirm as the wave 
And fatally brave. 
With hope and ambition his heart proudly swelled. 

Revolt of these wandering sons of the ocean 

Appeared to the nations no less than insane; 
Unstable and wrathful and swept by emotion. 

The Bretons seemed destined to suffer in vain, 
Hence Le Debonnaire 
Commissioned Witchaire 
To strive once again Morvan's friendship to gain. 

At length after labors and dangers unnumbered 

In grass-covered lake where the waters were still, 
In quicksand and bog with his armor encumbered, 
On slippery banks of a half covered rill. 
He crossed a deep ford 
Where swift waters roared 
And tested his quickness, his strength and his skill. 

A sentinel challenged him promptly on landing 

And blew on his clarion a blast short and shrill, 
When answer came back where the envoy was standing 
There near by the stream on a small, sloping hill, 
From dozens of posts 
Where gathered the hosts 
Of brave, sturdy Bretons for practice and drill. 

42 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Witchaire saw a scene of such unwonted bustle 

He seemed quite uncertain it was not a dream; 
Where softly the sound of the woods' gentle rustle , 
Brought music in whispers to mountain and stream, 
The clarion's blast 
Grew harsh as it passed 
And brightly the sun set the armor agleam. 

A circular plain that was widely extended 

Surrounded the spot where the lone castle stood; 
By natural works it was strongly defended, 
Canals, boggy marshes, a river, a wood. 
Some hills lying near, 
A space that was clear 
Combined in defenses substantial and good. 

Witchaire, as the beautiful scene lay before him, 

Remembered that oft in the night still and clear, 

When soft swelling sounds in a chorus stole o'er him 

And fell like a sweet serenade on his ear. 

He walked with Matilde 

Through meadow and field. 

And earth seemed a paradise when she was near. 

A deer from the neighboring hills lightly bounding 

To drink in the moonlight or feed in the field, 
The shepherd's rude pipe on the hills softly sounding- 
To frighten the wolves and his younglings to shield. 
The mellowing power 
And charm of the hour, 
And more than they all — by his side was Matilde. 

43 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Upon the charmed senses the music came stealing, 

And calmly the lakelets lay under the skies, 
The moonlight came softly, and tender the feeling 

That swelled in his heart when he looked in her eyes, 
Her footsteps were slow. 
Her voice soft and low, 
And heart spoke to heart with a joyous surprise. 

For one fleeting moment such was the fair vision 

That filled the mind's eye of the envoy of France, 
A picture that seemed beatific, Elysian ; 
Next moment he started as if from a trance. 
And, rubbing his eyes, 
He saw with surprise 
The flashing of armor and buckler and lance. 

There stood, gaunt and grim, black with age, but not shat- 
tered. 
The Breton King's seat in the midst of the plain, 
While all the known warlike defenses were scattered 
With soldier-like prudence his purpose to gain. 
Immense walls of stone. 
And drawbridges thrown. 
So placed that their foes should attack them in vain. 

Embankments, and mounds made of stones rough and 
jagged. 
The lakelets connected by moats wide and deep. 
And grim looking hedges with horrid thorns shagged 
Surrounded the castle, the tower and keep; 
In bristling array 
The black castle lay 
A wild beast of prey just aroused from its sleep. 

44 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The arms of the men in the sunlight were glancing, 

While drilling in various parts of the field, 
And proudly the cavaliers' horses were prancing 

As gaily they countermarched, galloped and wheeled ; 
The martial array. 
Imposing and gay. 
Seemed plainly to show that the King would not yield. 

The scene was so warlike and grandly inspiring 
Witchaire's martial spirit was visibly stirred. 
And while the array he was greatly admiring 
He mounted and off with his escort he spurred, 
And speeding away 
At close of the day. 
The sentinel's challenge at intervals heard. 

Where Morvan and some of his chiefs were carousing 

The envoy of France unexpectedly came. 
The King gave his hand and his spirit arousing. 
He wished him long life while he drank to his name, 
"We welcome Witchaire 
From Le Debonnaire, 
The chivalrous monarch so well known to fame." 

He said to Witchaire : "What good news from my brother. 

What message of kindness and peace did he send?" 
"King Louis, your master and mine," said the other, 
"Greets kindly Count Morvan, his vassal and friend." 
"Hold! gallant Witchaire, 
Your words are not fair," 
King Morvan said firmly, "Your words you must mend. 

45 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"King Louis is monarch within his dominion, 

But I am the King where the proud Bretons dwell ; 
We greatly respect your good master's opinion, 
Yet firmly maintain our opinion as well ; 
We bow to the King 
Whose praises we sing. 
No other ; these words to your liege you may tell." 

"Until you pay homage and prove yourself loyal 

To him who now sits on the Emperor's throne, 
Your claim to a scepter and privilege royal 
Is not a whit better, my friend, than my own." 
Thus kindly the youth 
Spoke plainly the truth. 
"His claim as my liege," said the King, "is not shown." 

"To great Charlemagne and his royal successors," 

The envoy replied, "is your fealty due, 
Who conquered the land and are still its possessors. 
To whom your own princes have sworn to be true." 
"You ever will find 
Forced oaths do not bind," 
The Breton replied, "further reason have you ?" 

"Yea; when you were wandering sons of the ocean, 

No home but your insecure barks on the wave, 
You bartered your swords and your loyal devotion 
For land which the Empire benignantly gave, 
And clement old Rome 
Provided a home 
For those who had no place to rest but the grave." 

46 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Sir envoy, and friends," said King Morvan, "the stronger 

Can govern the weak and his conquests maintain 
As long as he's able and not a day longer ; 
As vassals of Louis we will not remain ; 
Our cause is but right 
And Bretons will fight 
And fall to a man or our liberties gain. 

**The legions of Rome had no sooner receded 

Than in from the east swept a barbarous horde, 
The rights of all countries alike were unheeded, 
And over our state like a deluge it poured. 
But soon it was passed, 
The hour strikes at last. 
And Bretons demand that our rights be restored. 

^'Our people are few but are firmly united 
And ready to perish, yea, bravely to die, 
Their word to their country is faithfully plighted, 
And cursed be the traitor who basely would fly ; 
Our watchword shall be 
'Our country is free !' 
And freedom or death evermore be our cry !" 

Then counsellor, courtier, fair lady and vassal 

Took up the King's words and repeated the cry. 
Till out through the halls and the courts of the castle 
It swept to the soldiers out under the sky, 
"The country is free!" 
From mountain to sea 
The cry went wherever a Breton passed by. 

47 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And when in the distance the sound was receding, 

"Witchaire," said the King, "have you one further plea?' 
"I have," he replied, "but in vain is my pleading, 
No Breton desires further parley with me." 
With heaviest heart 
He rose to depart, 
And then before Morvan he sank on his knee. 



Then from the King's eyes the light suddenly faded 

And quickly dark shadows appeared on his brow. 
With thoughts of grim war and his country invaded. 
The envoy's departure he could not allow 
Till he could provide 
A way to decide 
The question more calmly and wisely than now. 

"Haste not," said the King, "until morn you shall tarry, 

Our chiefs and fair ladies request you to stay. 
And then our reply to your King you shall carry. 

And cheered and refreshed you may speed on your way. 
What ho ! bring the wine. 
Red fruit of the vine, 
Let joy fill the heart ere the night turn to day. 

"And, daughter, come forward our dullness to brighten, 
Come grant to your elders your presence and cheer, 
And let the fair ladies our heaviness lighten. 

Come, show that both talent and beauty are here, 
And welcome Witchaire 
From Le Debonnaire, 
Your friend and companion for many a year." 

48 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Then with her proud train of fair ladies in waiting 
Appeared the young beauty, the Princess Matilde, 
Where erstwhile the King and his friends were debating. 
And thus to the King very briefly appealed: 
"My lord and my sire, 
We beg to retire, 
In things diplomatic we willingly yield. 

"We have, sir, no counsel or aid to be given 

To men when they hob-nob with foes of the state, 
We ask that the envoys of tyrants be driven 

Away with contempt when they stand at your gate." 
Not waiting reply 
She proudly swept by. 
While fraught was the moment with Brittany's fate. 

The beautiful creature who with such decision 

Thus spoke of the envoy in tones of disdain. 
Appeared to Witchaire like a heavenly vision 

As coldly she passed at the head of her train. 
And over her face 
There came a faint trace 
Of something that softened the sting and the pain. 

So dazed by the words that Matilde had just spoken 

And stunned by the things old King Morvan had said. 
By visions of parting and ties rudely broken. 

He vacantly gazed where the Princess had fled. 
Then, banishing gloom, 
Was led to a room 
Where he with King Morvan insistently plead. 

49 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He plead as one human heart pleads with another, 
And not as the envoy of France did he plead, 
He plead as a friend and he warned as a brother, 
Well knowing v/ise counsel was Morvan's great need ; 
A picture he drew 
So vivid and true 
That Morvan seemed half-way inclined to give heed. 

He tol'd of the discord, turmoil and disorder, 

The bloody encounters, the passions and strife, 
The wild foreign armies invading his border, 
The havoc of war, the destruction of life, 
The wounded, the slain, 
The anguish, the pain. 
The cry of the maiden, the shriek of the wife. 

When Morvan's thoughts turned to his country all wasted 

Where quiet now reigned and prosperity smiled, 
He dashed down the cup with its contents untasted 
And thought of his home and his own darling child. 
And King Morvan wept 
As over him swept 
A conflict of passion all boundless and wild. 

Thus wracked with fierce passion and wind-tossed and 
driven. 
As when on the sea a wild storm sweeps the skies, 
He asked when his final reply must be given. 
Reply fraught with woe or with joyful surprise, 
To darken the way 
Or brighten the day, 
And heard the reply: "Ere the morning sun rise." 

50 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Come here," said the King, "when the sun lights the morn- 
ing." 
Witchaire strolled away and went out through the door, 
His heart sorely grieved at Matilde's bitter scorning, 
And sought in the silence a balm for his sore, 
And gazed at the field 
Where he and Matilde 
Had wandered so oft and might wander no more. 

Alone on the terrace while gloomily pacing 

And glancing anon through the dusk at the field, 
He heard his name called when he turned and stood facing 
Within her own window the Princess Matilde; 
Surpassingly fair, 
She calmly stood there. 
While figure and feature her temper revealed. 

So proudly she stood while the moments were fleeting, 

So cold was her look, that he spoke not a word, 
His tongue was enchained and his heart wildly beating, 
When strangely the heart of the maiden was stirred, 
And then as Witchaire 
Grew faint with despair, 
A sigh from the heart of the maiden was heard. 

So gently at last was the long silence broken. 

So gently when heart fondly answered to heart. 
So tender and sweet were the words that were spoken, 
They caused the young maiden to suddenly start : 
"Matilde! My Matilde!" 
"Witchaire!" and revealed 
And joined were two hearts until life should depart. 

51 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

They silently stood while their pulses were beating. 

Her little hands clasped in his tender embrace, 
She silently wept as the moments were fleeting, 
And gently the tear-drops fell down on his face. 
When time had sped by, 
Matilde with a sigh 
Spoke gently and firmly with maidenly grace. 

"My words must be few for the moments are flying; 

I love not the envoy of Le Debonnaire, 
The Princess of Brittany scorns to be sighing, 
'Tis only Matilde that loves gallant Witchaire; 
Dear, dear days of yore 
Can come never more. 
Our hearts and our hopes are alike buried there. 

" 'Tis only Matilde you may have for a lover. 

The Princess to Brittany gives up her life. 
The Princess has duties, as you will discover. 
That greatly transcend the dull duties of wife ; 
Our dreams of the past. 
Too happy to last. 
Must end ere the coming of warfare and strife." 

"Oh, tell me not so; yet again let us wander 

Where bloom flecks the hills and our beautiful field. 
Where sweetly the moon sheds its beauty out yonder. 
Oh, give me again those sweet years, my Matilde! 
Oh, tell me not so, 
Our dreams cannot go." 
Thus warmly Witchaire to his lover appealed. 

52 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Oh, say not, Matilde, that our vows must be broken, 

Our passionate love its fruition denied, 
You are not your own, the dear word has been spoken. 
Your duty, my dearest, whatever betide, 
Wherever I go, 
For weal or for woe, 
Your duty, Matilde, sends you there by my side." 

"Oh, would that it might be," Matilde replied, sighing, 

"Oh, would that those moments might come once again. 
When over the hills where cloud shadows were flying 
We wandered alone through the meadow and glen, 
By flowers and stream, 
Dear, dear vanished dream. 
The world seemed so bright and so beautiful then. 

"Dear halycon days, precious moments now vanished. 

When burdened with joy every hour quickly sped, 
Along with our visions our hopes must be banished, 
Our hopes, dreams and visions alike are all fled ; 
What once was so sweet 
I cast at my feet. 
As flowers once prized but now withered and dead. 

"Sometimes I go back where we once loved to wander 

And weave the wild chaplet again for my hair, 
And sit all alone in our haunts as I ponder 
On days when we wandered so happily there; 
But fame now enthralls. 
High destiny calls, 
And now I must leave your forever, Witchaire." 

53 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"High destiny !" cried he in proud indignation, 

"The child of a crownless, impoverished King!" 
"Yes, poor," she replied, "but to honor our nation 
Will ever most bravely and stubbornly cling; 
Oh, chide me not now, 
Return me my vow, 
And peace to Matilde you so kindly will bring." 

"I do," he replied, and Matilde, quickly kneeling, 

Held both of his hands tightly clasped in her own, 
And looking to heaven, as mutely appealing, 

Her face seemed as pale as if chiseled in stone, 
Then quickly her eyes. 
Withdrawn from the skies. 
Looked down in her lover's while brightly they shone. 

Some moments she looked while her pulses were throbbing, 

And freely her tears showered down in his face, 
Then wildly she wept and her passionate sobbing 
Kept on unrestrained and unheeded a space. 
Then nearer she drew. 
Till fondly she threw 
Her arms round his neck in a tender embrace. 



Matilde kissed his lips as the moments were stealing, 
Then fled and her form disappeared in the gloom ; 
Witchaire threw his arms where Matilde had been kneeling, 
He felt but the air, she was gone from the room. 
He felt but the air, 
Matilde, all so fair, 
Was gone with her love and her tears and her bloom. 

54 



m 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He struck in attempting to stop her from flying 

A suit of black armor that fell on the floor, 
Which closely resembled as there it was lying 
The form of a person stretched out by the door, 
And by ill chance 
His hand struck a lance 
And left on the armor some drops of his gore. 

Not yet fully freed from an old superstition 

The warrior was filled with an undefined dread, 
King Morvan misled by his foolish ambition, 
Matilde, still devoted and loving, yet fled. — 
Crestfallen and dazed. 
Bewildered and crazed, 
He trembled, and staggered, and fell as one dead. 

An hour before sunrise the Princess stood tapping 

And asking admission to King Morvan's door. 
She heard no response and continued her rapping, 
Then raising the latch gently tripped o'er the floor. 
When King Morvan said, 
Not raising his head, 
"Witchaire, I must ask you one fleeting hour more.*' 

"My father, 'tis I, I came early to greet you 

And counsel you, father, while sorely distressed. 

I come," said Matilde," ere the envoy shall meet you, 

To know what reply you will give to your guest, 

To help you decide 

If war shall betide. 

Or whether in peace our poor Bretons shall rest." 

55 



i^^^^B 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Go to," he replied, "The affairs of the nation 

Are duties that rest on the shoulders of men. 

Return to the things that belong to your station. 

And do not disturb your old father again; 

Your eye is not bright, 

Your heart is not light, 

And dark are the clouds that enshadow your ken. 

"Why up thus so early? Go back to your slumber!" 
The Princess replied, "Slumber fled from my eyes. 
And waking dreams came to me, came without number, 
And I must reveal them before the run rise." 
"Go to!" he replied; 
"I will speak !" she cried, 
"My dreams I must tell ere the sun light the skies !" 

The Princess began and recited, while standing, 
The story that came from the Bretons of old. 
Her tone was imperative, gentle, commanding, 
And Morvan gave heed while the story she told: 
She saw Conan roam 
Away from his home, 
From Britain, the home of the brave and the bold. 



He glided away on the waves madly dancing, 

The piping winds screaming so shrill on the air, 

While brightly the sun on his armor was glancing, 

And landed in Gaul, where, though fertile and fair, 

Still redder waves flowed 

And wilder shrieks shewed 

That Conan must fight for a resting place there. 

56 



I 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Then into the midst of the fight madly leaping, 

He cleared him a place by the sweep of the sword, 
And with his brave followers fearlessly sweeping, 
He vanquished the Prankish barbarian horde 
And with his own hand 
Subdued the fair land 
Which never shall be by the Bretons restored. 

"I saw the long line of our monarchs unbroken, 

Eleven brave rulers that sat on the throne, 
I heard the bold words that our Bretons have spoken, 
And heard them with joy, for those words were our own ; 
Our kings, true and brave, 
Repelled the wild wave 
Of barbarous force with our Bretons alone. 

"Then bowing my head in my shame and my sorrow 

I felt the disgrace that we briefly sustained. 
Till promise appeared of a brighter to-morrow 

When Conan's brave spirit appeared and maintained 
Our country, our cause. 
Our old Celtic laws. 
And swept through the land till our freedom was gained. 

"I lifted my head and I saw the King sitting. 

King Morvan, my father, arrayed on your throne. 
And clad in steel armor as seemed so befitting. 
Your nobles stood there and their swords brightly shone. 
And soon you arose 
Your will to disclose 
And told us the Bretons had come to their own. 

57 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Your brow was so beautiful, yet so commanding 

And terrible in the old crown that you wore, 
Your gestures were fierce and withal so demanding. 
And fiery your glance and so proudly you bore, 
Like thunder on high 
You sent forth the cry, 
'Our country is free! we are free evermore!' 

"And straightway the cry, as by some inspiration, 
Caught up by the warrior, the noble, the dame, 
Repeated abroad and sent forth to the nation. 
Inspired and set Brittany all in a flame, 
'The Bretons are free !' 
From mountain to sea. 
In castle and cottage the cry was the same. 

"You say 'twas a dream, that my mind did but wander! 

Sir, it was no dream ! Oh ! there is not a tree. 
No flower, no weed, not a rock over yonder 

Where dawn lights the hills and the shades of night flee. 
No heart beats to-day 
Where Bretons hold sway. 
Which cries not aloud, 'We are free ! we are free 1' " 

The King caught his child in his arms, fondly crying: 

"Matilde ! my Matilde ! Were you only a man, 
My heart might be hardened, but oh," said he, sighing, 
"With you I must yield while the stronger may plan." 
Then answered Matilde : 
"We never will yield ! 
We rather will die than to yield but a span !" 

58 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

King Morvan replied, and his accents were tender, 
"Alas! my dear daughter, that deathly pale brow, 
Those bloodless, cold lips, and these limbs weak and slender. 
Those fair silken tresses, alas ! I feel now 
The father's kind heart 
And not the stern part 
That kings roughly play when their foemen must bow. 

"How many another man has a dear daughter! 

How many fond mothers a dear, darling son ! 

Whom I may condemn to be victims of slaughter 

If rashly, unwisely my work shall be done ! 

The husband, the wife 

May perish in strife 

When by hasty action it once is begun." 

The Princess replied : "Then, if in your opinion 

The King represents the brave men of the land. 
The dames and the maidens within your dominion 
All stand here in me when before you I stand. 
Oh, trust your Matilde! 
They never will yield ! 
Through me they present their insistent demand. 

"If safety must cost the good name of the nation 

Our maidens and dames are all ready to die ! 
The King should show valor befitting his station 
And show his proud banner unfurled to the sky. 
Oh, King ! be a man ! 
Lead on in the van ! 
And 'Freedom' shall be our victorious cry!" 

59 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Again did King Morvan exhibit his feeling, 

Again did the King throw his arm round Matilde, 
His internal conflict of passion revealing, 

While she to his bold, martial spirit appealed, 
And sat on his knee 
While singing with glee 
A song of old wars and the feats of the field. 

She brought him the wine-cup and bade him to drain it,] 

Again and again sang the songs he loved best, 
She lauded their cause and then bade him maintain it. 
She thrice poured the wine as he drank it with zest. 
Till in the King's eyes 
The bold enterprise 
Seemed ready at last to be put to the test. 

She unsheathed his sword and in frolicsome measure 

Recounted his deeds and his victories won, 
Admired the keen blade and with infinite pleasure 
And gaiety showed how his brave deeds were done, 
King Morvan was cheered, 
His vision was cleared, 
And now he was primed for the rise of the sun. 



He strode with a warrior's step through the morning 

As rang from the tower the clarion's tone, 
Proclaiming to serf and to noble the warning 
And telling the world that the morning sun shone; 
The Princess in glee 
Exclaimed : "We are free !" 
And rushed from the room and left Morvan alone. 

60 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

King Morvan still strode, his bold war-cry repeating 

When promptly on time came the gallant Witchaire 
To carry the King's final answer or greeting 
Of peace or of war to the Le Debonnaire; 
And to his surprise 
In King Morvan's eyes 
He read the sad message as Morvan stood there. 

Said Morvan: "Tell Louis I send him my greeting, 

I send him no tribute, not one single cent; 
Your errand is sped." Thus was ended the meeting. 
The envoy attempted to change his intent. 
But to his dismay 
The King turned away, 
And thus from the castle Witchaire sadly went. 

Across the frontier into Brittany riding, 

Witchaire and his troopers appeared once again, 
When weeks of grim war had been sorely betiding 
And vexing and trying the spirits of men. 
Two score days save one 
Its grim course had run 
In castle and cottage, in valley and glen. 

The fields had been ravaged, the country was lying 

Struck down by a sudden and merciless blow. 
The homes were destroyed and their inmates were flying 
Pursued and cut down by a barbarous foe. 
The merciless game 
Of pillage and flame 
Was played till it wrought desolation and woe. 

6i 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

When all was subdued but the brave Breton spirit 

And Bretons were swept from the land to the sea, 
They paused not at death for they seemed not to fear it. 
No refuge was left and no hope they could see 
But turning at bay 
In battle array 
And dying the death of the brave and the free. 

Again to Witchaire had been granted commission 

To carry to Morvan an offer of peace, 
He vainly had sought from King Louis permission 
To bring to the unhappy slaughter surcease, 
But won in the end 
For Morvan, his friend, 
A chance to obtain for his Bretons release. 

He cautioned his men to let no provocation 

Induce them to draw either sword or a spear, 
But stay the strong hand that had wrought desolation 
Nor sully their cause with a fair maiden's tear, 
To camp where they stood. 
Then plunged in the wood. 
His heart full of doubt and of foreboding fear. 

He forded the river and with his heart beating 
Ascended the hill where he saw at a glance 
A change had been wrought where the Bretons, retreating, 
To harass their foes and prevent their advance. 
Had razed to the ground 
Whatever they found 
Would aid in the least the brave soldiers of France. 

62 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The tents were destroyed and the fragments were scattered. 

The castle still stood and seemed almost entire, 
Though some of its small, outer bulwarks were shattered, 
And still was defended though blackened by fire, 
And sentinel calls 
Were heard on the walls 
That seemed better fit for the lute and the lyre. 

The lakes were destroyed and the river diverted, 

And brown were the hills and the valleys between, 
The fields and the gardens were wholly deserted, 
And trodden and torn were the meadows of green, 
War's merciless hand 
Had ravaged the land. 
And ruined and wrecked was the beautiful scene. 

Though soon it was known that he came on a mission 

Of mercy and peace from the Le Debonnaire, 
The envoy stood waiting and seeking admission. 
The patriots either in scorn or despair 
Thus forcing to wait 
Without at the gate 
The Emperor's envoy, the noble Witchaire. 

At length when admitted he saw no confusion, 

The sentries were whiling the moments away, 
The wine-cups of silver and gold in profusion. 
The costumes unusually brilliant and gay. 
The tables were set. 
The courtiers were met, 
And carpets of flowers in gorgeous display. 

63 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Witchaire," said the King, as they greeted each other, 

And silence prevailed through the banqueting hall, 
"Witchaire, what good news, what says Louis, my brother, 
Now since he has driven his foes to the wall?" 
The envoy replied, 
As sadly he sighed, 
"My master regrets to see valiant men fall. 

"He bade me to ask that, ere any more perish, 

Ere Bretons all lie in the graves of the slain, 
You save both your lives and the cause 3'^ou so cherish ; 
Submit and pay tribute, and he will sustain 
Your country, your cause, 
Your old Breton laws. 
And war shall be stayed in the valley and plain. 

"No longer devoted to extermination 

Your people unharmed may return to the field, 
The family, the home and their own Breton nation;" 
Thus strongly Witchaire to King Morvan appealed. 
King Morvan replied 
With coldness and pride. 
While irony in every word was revealed: 

"Accept our poor thanks for this generous oflfer; 
Advantages which we would gain by the peace 
Contained in your most clement Emperor's proffer. 
Should be well considered if he will release 
Our land from the sword, 
Our rights all restored. 
And bid the dread slaughter forever to cease. 

64 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Yet, let me consider; such kind condescension 
Is shown to the living and not to the dead; 
Such clemency, comrades, would cause some dissension 
And bring further trouble on old Morvan's head. 
The shades of the slain 
Would rise to complain 
That Bretons had basely deserted and fled. 

*T swear it would be but injustice to falter 

And grovel for terms which for them we refused. 
And this is no time for a Breton to palter. 
No time for a man to get issues confused, 
The ravens at morn 
Would laugh us to scorn; 
Of cowardice we should be justly accused. 

"Why, even the skulls when upon them we stumble 

Out there on the hills, would derisively grin 
And crying with shame, incoherently mumble 
And chatter their teeth with a horrible din; 
I hear them complain. 
Our patriot slain, 
That we have consented a parley to begin. 

"And since this is so, then our fate is decided! 
But hold! If we yield our immediate return 
To home and to family and field is provided; 
No heart made of iron this offer could spurn; 
The words strike the ear 
As songs that we hear. 
As dews gently fall on the leaves of the fern. 

65 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"The very words fall as the kiss of a mother 
Upon the sweet lips of a dear, loving child, 
As words of endearment from sister or brother, 
Or whispers of love to a maid sweet and mild, 
As babbling of brooks 
In cool, quiet nooks 
Where summer birds sing and the flowers grow wild. 

"Yea, truly, alas ! he will grant us permission 
To visit our fields and our meadows again, 
But barren and desolate is their condition 
And bare as the mountain, the marsh and the fen; 
War's withering breath 
Has scorched them to death. 
And nought is found there but the graves of brave men. 

"Our homes? Yea, the place of our sires' habitations! 

In ruins, in ashes, a smouldering heap! 
The laughing-stock, Bretons, of neighboring nations, 
A nation of cowards, deluded, asleep ! 
Our kinsmen ? But slaves ! 
Our sons ? In their graves ! 
Our daughters ? No heritage left but to weep ! 

"Witchaire ! do you dare, as our fury increases, 

To mock us, to beard us here, right in our den, 
Where, ready to hew and to be hewn to pieces, 
We rise like a tiger, bold desperate men, 
To slay and be slain. 
For loss or for gain. 
To perish or gain our lost freedom again ?" 

66 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

'^Revenge ! and then death !" cried a voice deep and hollow. 

The cry was re-echoed with many a yell ; 
"Revenge! and then death!" and still fiercer cries follow, 
While voices of women in shrill chorus swell; 
The masquerade closed, 
The faces exposed 
Showed passions more baleful than language could tell. 

The smiles disappeared and malign, hungry glances 

Were darted to where the young Frank stood alone. 
While on came the Bretons with daggers and lances. 
And Morvan sat gloomily there on the throne ; 
"Sir Envoy," he cried, 
"Ere evil betide 
Depart, ere these looks have more dangerous grown." 

"He shall not depart !" cried a voice wildly shrieking, 

And out of their scabbards the Breton swords flew 
Whose wielders were fiercely and angrily seeking 
To thrust the brave heart of their enemy through. 
While folding his arms. 
Ignoring alarms, 
The King calmly sat as still nearer they drew. 

He calmly looked on as the Bretons drew nearer. 

Their bloody intentions not being concealed. 
While shrieks for dire vengeance rang clearer and clearer 
And plainly their bloody intentions revealed; 
The Frank would have died 
Had not to his side 
To rescue her lover come Princess Matilde. 

67 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Back, friends!" said the Princess, "stand back!" she com- 
manded. 
She flung back the swords of the murderous band, 
She drove back the blood-thirsty crowd single-handed. 
And there by her lover alone took her stand; 
There was not a trace 
Of blood in her face, 
And wasted and thin were her face and her hand. 

"My friends," said the Princess, "my friends and my: 
brothers, 
This man is an envoy who trusts himself here, 
He trusts in our honor, the honor of others. 
The honor that Bretons have ever held dear; 
Unsullied and pure 
Our name shall endure 
While we to the dictates of honor adhere. 

"Between us and France there is this one distinction. 

That we have as yet held our honor supreme, 
And when we are driven to total extinction 
And vanish for aye like the lines of a dream, 
The nations will tell 
How bravely we fell 
And passed like a star with our honor agleam. 

"The nations will tell and the tale be repeated, 

And people will hear with a flush and a tear, 

How Bretons could die without being defeated, 

A people so just that they never knew fear, 

Then in this last scene 

Oh, let us keep clean 

The cause that to Bretons has ever been dear. 

68 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Sir Envoy, depart, and inform your base master 

That since we have found that we cannot Hve free, 
We bravely will die in a bloody disaster 

In castle, in cottage, from mountain to, sea !" 
In silence Witchaire 
Stood motionless there, 
Transfixed and unable to speak or to flee. 

In silence he stood until signs of renewal 

Of passions that caused the fair Princess alarm. 

And knowing the Bretons were heartless and cruel 

Matilde took the envoy of France by the arm, 

And leading him on 

As daggers were drawn 

She rescued her lover from danger and harm. 

Descending the stairs as the Princess was leading 

And passing the doorway out into the air 
Witchaire soon recalled that, though vain was his pleading 
To save the old King, he must now seek to care 
For one far more dear 
While danger was near, 
A danger that grew with the depth of despair. 

He paused near the door, and, to lend his assistance, 

Unloosed from his own the weak clasp of her hand, 
Threw round her one arm as he met no resistance 
And strolled to a spot where once more they could stand 
As oft they had done 
When watching the sun 
Paint colors of gold on the sky and the land. 

69 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

He pointed while trembling with deepest emotion 

Away to those summits of memory and love, 
Then turned to Matilde with a look of devotion, 
Matilde, ever gentle and mild as a dove; 
"Matilde! My Matilde!" 
He kindly appealed, 
"Oh, hear the kind messages sent from above ! 

"How sweetly and softly the dew is now falling! 
How fragrant the breath of the forests of green ! 
flow plainly the breezes of evening are calling, 
The beautiful hills and the sky all serene. 
To one and to all 
These messengers call 
And point to the arm on which mortals may lean. 

"Look where the bright light on the hill-top is streaming ; 

'Twas there that 1 whispered my first lover's vow; 
We wandered there often so happily dreaming. 

But saw not the days that have dawned on us now; 
And often it seems 
Such heaven-sent dreams 
Teach men immortality sits on his brow." 

He thought for a moment his efforts had banished 

The Princess' foreboding and hopeless despair. 
But soon his encouraging hopes quickly vanished, 
As clearly, though sadly, she said to Witchaire : 
"Though dear it may seem 
It was but a dream, 
A vision as fleeting as now it seems fair." 

70 



I 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"It cannot return in its freshness and beauty," 

The envoy replied, "y^i, as seen through our tears, 
And measured and tried by the standard of duty, 
Inspiring our lives, it will rise with the years ; 
For, captured alive. 
The Count will survive. 
Count Morvan, your father, in spite of our fears. 

"I pledge this myself, and though monarch no longer 

He still will be father, though monarch no more. 
And in my own castle which soon will grow stronger 
We still may be happy as in the loved yore." 
"He never shall yield !" 
Retorted Matilde, 
"I swear by the Being that Christians adore ! 

"Witchaire, if I thought he would basely surrender 

And not rather give up his life on the field, 
The bravest, the truest, the noblest defender. 
The hand of his daughter, his only Matilde, 
Would play its bold part 
And plunge to his heart 
The dagger that Bretons well know how to wield J 

"He captured alive, while his subjects are dying! 

The lord of a graveyard ! A king of the dead ! 
While round him in ruins his kingdom is lying, 
While glory and honor forever are fled ! 
You might as well strive \ 
To save me alive. 
Who brought this misfortune and woe on his head !' 

71 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Hush! Hush!" said Witchaire, "for your dear spirit wan- 
ders." 
The Princess replied: "It will soon be at rest." 
She paused for a moment, a moment she ponders, 
And then she replied : "I have done what was best, 
Without fear or shame 
I lost in the game, 
For false was my fortune when put to the test. 

"Yet, what I have done was for honor and glory, 

And by the Great Being my people adore, 
Though dreadful indeed be the tragical story. 
If fate should demand the decision once more, 
For honor and fame 
Fd play the same game. 
Though fate might defeat me and cozen me sore." 

She paused and walked proudly away a short distance, 

Till softness and tenderness over her stole. 
Subduing her heart with a gentle persistence ; 

"Ay, look !" cried Witchaire, "where the dark shadows roll 
Till frenzy depart, 
Till love fill your heart. 
And God's tender mercy descend on your soul I" 

"I will look, for looking will now be no treason 

To country or King," then replied the fair maid, 
"My weary heart bids me to look for a season 
At haunts where in happier days we have strayed, 
And over a flood 
Of tears and of blood 
I see where no crossing can ever be made I 

72 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

^'Farewell, ye fair skies, where the sunset is glowing! 

Ye beautiful hills where the wild flowers bloom ! 
Ye whispers of love where far rivers are flowing ! 
Ye haunts of my youth, with your hints of perfume! 
No cool, fragrant dews 
Or fair sunset hues 
Shall welcome me here as I stray from my room. 

"For me nevermore shall be heard in the gloaming 

The clarion call or the song of a bird ! 
Or music of bees when afar they are roaming 

When myriad sounds of the morning are heard! 
Farewell, shady seats 
Where tenderly beats 
The heart when its tenderest feelings are stirred ! 

"Ye rich hanging boughs ! It is hard thus to sever 

My heart from the scenes where I lingered long years. 
Ye groves that I love, now farewell, and forever !" 
Her words slowly came as if held by her fears 
That each would be last, 
Then freely and fast 
Down over her face swept a torrent of tears. 

Her face to Witchaire, she was slowly retreating ; 

He gasped : "Oh, not yet ! Do not yet say farewell ! 
I would — Oh, I would — " but with heart wildly beating 
He felt his voice choke and his warrior heart swell, 
By passion beguiled 
He wept as a child. 
As tears in a torrent increasingly fell. 

73 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Matilde to his side in a moment came sweeping, 

Her arms round the neck of her lover she threw, 
And shaken by feeling and passionate weeping 

She sobbed : "My dear love, my farewell was to you! 
My guide and my light 
By day and by night, 
I loved you, Witchaire, with a love that was true ! 

"The woods, hills and trees and the rivers about you. 
The attributes were that but proved you divine. 
And would be but rocks, plants and water without you; 
You caused all their life and their beauty to shine. 
They spoke in your voice 
And made me rejoice ; 
I worshipped Witchaire when I bowed at their shrine !" 

The words from her lips had not more than departed 

When loud came the clarion's call on the air. 
And quickly unclasping her hands Matilde started 
And reaching the doorway looked back at Witchaire, 
Her form and her face. 
The picture of grace, 
As seen through the shadows seemed wondrously fair. 

She lingered a moment and then quickly vanished, 

While sadly her lover still gazed through his tears. 
His tears and his sadness were suddenly banished 
As stern martial voices saluted his ears, 
And out from the hall 
The clarion's call 
Sent stripling and veteran grizzled with years. 

74 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Assured that King Morvan would fall in the slaughter 

And wishing to learn what provision was made, 
In case of disaster, to care for the daughter, 

Out into the courtyard Witchaire slowly strayed; 
The torches' red glare. 
The clarion's blare 
Proclaimed where the troops were in order arrayed. 

The troopers were mounting in soldier-like manner, 

While ensigns and badges of honor they bore, 
King Morvan himself held the national banner 
Torn almost to tatters and clotted with gore. 
Accoutred in steel 
From helmet to heel. 
Unsheathed and well-tempered the swords that they wore. 

While brightly the light on their armor was glancing 

And horses impatiently pawing the ground 
The gate was thrown open and Morvan, advancing, 
Commanded a halt by the clarion's sound; 
A goblet of gold 
Was filled, as of old. 
While bold cavaliers gathered gravely around. 

Ere drinking the wine, as his bosom was swelling. 
He glanced for a moment around the old place. 
His eye on one window in vain fondly dwelling 
And seeking a view of his daughter's pale face 
To solace his heart 
Ere he should depart. 
Then drank to the health of the bold Breton race. 

75 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

"Health, ladies!" he said, "health, my friends and my 
brothers ! 
For country and home we now make the last play, 
Our land, if we lose, will be taken by others, 
And all that we love will be lost in a day. 
At Brittany's call 
Like men we will fall, 
And fadeless our glory forever and aye ! 

"If ever again, although blackened and crumbled, 

Our castles and homes we are fated to see 
Our arms will prevail and our foemen be humbled, 
And Bretons once more will be honored and free; 
At Brittany's call 
We speed to our fall, 
Determined to perish but never to flee !'* 

The cup was then passed till they all had partaken. 

Each drank in his turn, till the cup had gone round, 
To dear ones and homes now forever forsaken ; 
Then clear on the air rang the clarion's sound, 
And into the gloom 
And on to their doom 
The King and his men swiftly sped o'er the ground. 

Witchaire gazed with pity and great admiration 

At each stately form as it plunged in the gloom 
That seemed but a type to his imagination 

Of death and the grave and their fast-coming doom ; 
Until at the last 
A stripling rode past. 
His helmet adorned with a beautiful plume. 

76 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The stripling was delicate, graceful and slender, 

More fit for his home and his mother's embrace 
Than riding to war as his country's defender 
When men ride to death in a desperate race ; 
Witchaire cursed the day 
Ambition's dire sway 
Drove nations to war at a desperate pace. 

Witchaire was forgotten and thus left to wander 

Alone through the court when the portals were closed. 
And thus was enabled in quiet to ponder; 

At length he recalled that Matilde was exposed 
To war's bloody strife 
When pillage was rife. 
Where ruffians might enter almost unopposed. 

The wreck of the army was on the defensive 

Not far from the castle, hemmed in by the foe. 
The natural bulwarks, at first quite extensive, 
Had lately been shattered by blow after blow, 
And doubtless the King 
Was seeking to bring 
His knights to their aid ere the morning's first glow. 

The last stroke must come with the hours of the morning. 

Unless the bold Bretons could win in the fray. 
When autumn's bright tints and soft hues were adorning 
The mountains and forests and meadows of grey. 
The false lure of fame. 
The desperate game 
In slaughter must end on the fortieth day. 

77 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Those who might escape from the terrible slaughter 

Through wood and morass to the castle would fly, 
Where noble and serf, the old King and his daughter 
Might fight to the end and defiantly die; 
Thus reasoned Witchaire 
While pondering there. 
As pale grew his cheek and his heart heaved a sigh. 

Thus reasoned the Frank and he wisely concluded, 

To carry Matilde till the danger was past 
To some place of safety, near by but secluded, 

While battle's red rout and the trumpet's rude blast. 
Where slaughter ran high, 
Rent earth and the sky 
And ended the dream of the Bretons at last. 

He sent her a message requesting a meeting. 
And, finding the servant did not reappear. 
He started himself as the moments were fleeting 
And sought information from all who passed near; 
Some gave no reply. 
Some coldly passed by, 
Some laughed in his face with no vestige of fear. 

He sought the rooms used by the women for sleeping, 

Concluding the Princess had gone to her rest; 
In some of the rooms he heard moaning and weeping, 
In some all was silent and vain was his quest; 
At length in his round 
A lady he found 
Who showed Matilde's room, at his earnest behest. 

7^ 



TtiE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

As soon as she gave the desired information 

Her wild shrieks of laughter rang out in the gloom; 
Witchaire gently knocked and with much trepidation 
He listened but heard not a sound in the room, 
Again gently tapped, 
Then still louder rapped. 
And yet all within was as still as the tomb. 

At length he imagined his hearing was greeted 

By sounds from within and he called her by name, 
Still louder he knocked and her name he repeated, 
And then to the hasty conclusion he came 
To trifle no more, 
But break in the door. 
And boldly the right of protector to claim. 

Before doing this he quite sternly commanded 
The Princess, if there, to respond to his call, 
And then in imperative tone he demanded 

That she should retire ere the castle should fall, 
While from the next room 
And piercing the gloom 
Hysterical laughter rang out through the hall. 

The laughter developed at length into screaming 

That broke through the darkness and startled his ear. 
Till visions of danger and horror came teeming 
And dreadful illusions and foreboding fear ; 
Impatient at length 
He summoned his strength 
And broke in the door, and, lo ! no one was near ! 

79 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Surprised and bewildered and somewhat dejected 

Witchaire for a moment stood there on the floor, 
But when he recovered himself and collected 

His thoughts he remarked: "I have still one chance more; 
Subdued by my band 
And into my hand 
King Morvan shall fall with the standard he bore. 

"The King shall be followed, his party surrounded, 

And captured alive ere he fall on the field, 
Deprived of their leader, surprised and confounded. 
His followers will be compelled soon to yield; 
However things go, 
For weal or for woe, 
Matilde is in safety wherever concealed. 

"And when we have fought and the battle is ended 

I then will obtain from the Emperor's grace. 
Well knowing its strength and how ably defended, 
Command of the men who are sent to this place, 
And thus I will shield 
The Princess Matilde 
And Morvan, the last of the bold Breton race." 

He flew through the halls, to the stables descended. 

And with his own hands he accoutred a steed, 
He found the lone castle so poorly defended 

That only for sword and stout words he had need, 
And though it was late 
He rode to the gate. 
And out through the darkness he quickened his speed. 

80 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Still onward he sped as the dawn of the morning 
Appeared in the east and gave promise of day 
And carried to both of the combatants warning 
To summon their strength for the last bloody fray. 
And over the plain 
Where wounded and slain 
Their armor and weapons had dropped by the way. 

He rode where canals and swift rivers were flowing 

And slowly he threaded his way through the trees; 
He rode where the fresh morning breezes were blowing 
And slowly the daylight appeared by degrees, 
Where autumn birds flew, 
The sun kissed the dew, 
'Mid songs of the birds and the hum of the bees. 

As on through the forest he gallantly speeded 
He feared his arrival might still be too late; 
His wish to save Morvan, unknown and unheeded, 
Might still not avail to avert his sad fate ; 
The castle might fall 
And Morvan and all 
Be slaughtered ere he could arrive at the gate. 

The Bretons seemed filled with a determination 
To die when they came to the point of despair, 
And too well he knew that sometimes immolation 
Of women by kinsmen occurred, although rare, 
And, conjured by fear. 
Shrieks fell on his ear 
And visions of slaughter and death filled the air. 

8i 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

While onward his steed was still faithfully bounding 

A note too familiar saluted his ear, 
The notes of his own party's clarion sounding 
The call for their leader came faintly but clear, 
The wild spectres fled 
As onward he sped, 
And with them departed all vestige of fear. 

The horse bounded forward till nearer and nearer 

To where the road passed from the woods to a glade. 
When loud rang the clarion clearer and clearer, 
The sounds of the battle, the clang of the blade, 
But loud above all 
His clarion call 
Rang out by his soldiers imploring his aid. 

But when a small eminence he had ascended 

And cast his eye hastily over the field, 
He saw where the combatants fiercely contended 
As Bretons threw javelins and then quickly wheeled. 
He saw his men fall 
And heard their loud call. 
Imploring his aid ere they basely must yield. 

The soldier was greeted with wild acclamation 

As swiftly he rode to the thick of the fray. 
Where slowly the Bretons in fierce desperation 
Were forcing the veteran Franks to give way, 
And waving his sword 
He quickly restored 
The wavering Franks and recovered the day. 

82 






THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The Bretons in armor and all intermingled, 
He saw but en masse, in a general view, 
What was his dismay when he saw himself singled 
And picked for assault by a man whom he knew 
By the banner he bore, 
All covered with gore. 
To be old King Morvan as nearer he drew. 

The veteran's shock he avoided by springing 

Aside and permitting old Morvan to pass. 

And suddenly send his lance merrily ringing 

Against the well-tried and well-tempered cuirass 
Of Coslus, a knight. 
Who bravely could fight 
As well on a mountain, a plain or morass. 

This furious attack which was quite unexpected. 

Bore Coslus almost from his horse to the ground, 
But by a back stroke of his sword he effected 
The Breton's undoing as King Morvan found; 
The back-handed stroke 
Its fastenings broke. 
And down fell the casque with a foreboding sound. 

This rendered unequal the fight by exposing 

King Morvan's grey head to the younger man's blade. 
When straight to the King for the purpose of closing 
He sped, and impetuous courage displayed; 
The King quickly drew. 
The fight to renew. 
When clashing of steel loudly rang through the glade. 

83 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

A thought at that moment subconsciously darted 

With lightning-like speed through the mind of Witchain 
And ere it was gone he unconsciously started, 

And said : "To the ground the old King I will bear, 
And seeing him fall 
His followers all 
Supposing him perished, will fly in despair. 

"And thus shall King Morvan be easily captured 

And taken again to the Princess Matilde." 
Witchaire at the thought was quite thrilled and enraptured. 
And couching his lance he sped over the field: l{ 

But seeing his flight, " 

A bold Breton knight 
Rode out, and he saw his design was revealed. 

The Breton went down and the Frank, unimpeded, 

Unscathed, irresistibly swept on his way; 
The fate of the knight was unwisely unheeded. 
Another brave Breton advanced to the fray, 
He sped without fear 
And shivered his spear. 
Fell back from his charger and helplessly lay. 

Still onward Witchaire to King Morvan went speeding. 

Against his thick armor directing his spear, 
When reckless of life and the danger unheeding, 
Unarmed, unaccoutred, a young cavalier 
Sprang into the field 
King Morvan to shield. 
And fell, as the Frank and King Morvan fought near. 

84 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Witchaire with solicitude anxious and tender 

Withdrawing his spear from the cavaher's breast, 
Beheld the poor stripling so graceful and slender 
Who seemed to have lingered bemoaned and caressed 
And wearing his plume 
Rode forth in the gloom 
To give up his life at his country's behest. 

Yet, short as it was this delay was sufficient 
To baffle Witchaire in the object he sought. 
For Coslus' strong arm was in nothing deficient, 
And as he and Morvan a fierce duel fought 
He cleft the King's head 
And Morvan fell dead, 
His dream of a kingdom thus coming to nought. 

At this fatal sight all his followers flying 

Pursued by the knights and the soldiers of France, 
Dismounting, Witchaire sought the youth who was dying, 
His tender breast pierced by the Frank's cruel lance, — 
His heart gave a bound. 
Then fast to the ground 
Transfixed were his feet, like a man in a trance. 



A long golden ringlet as fair as the morning 

Hung through the youth's helmet and flung on the field; 
Witchaire in his haste all polite methods scorning. 
Tugged hard at the fastenings and forced them to yield, 
A cry rent the air 
As, trembling, Witchaire 
Discovered the face of the Princess Matilde. 

85 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The Princess, refreshed by the air, or reviving 

On hearing- the voice that she long had loved well, 
Said faintly: "Witchaire, is my father surviving?" 
His looks told her quickly what tongue could not tell; 
"Thank God !" said Matilde, 
"He died on the field, 
In honor he lived and in honor he fell." 

"Where is he?" she whispered, "oh, did he die near me? 

And now will you lift me, my lover and friend. 
And lay me beside my dear father, oh, hear me, 
And there let me look on his face to the end 
And hold his dear hand. 
Defence of our land, 
The hand that no longer can bravely defend?" 

He moved her to where the dead body was lying; 

She looked at his wound as her grief she repressed. 
She kissed his grey hair and his lips, deeply sighing. 
And leaned her weak head on his motionless breast, 
His arm in some haste 
She drew round her waist, 
And thus to her lover her feelings expressed: 

"Come, sit down," she whispered, "sit down by your lover. 

And put your arms round me awhile ere I die. 
As yet for a moment I fondly shall hover 

This side of the grave where so soon I shall lie. 
And then without fear. 
With precious ones near 
Matilde will go hence without tremor or sigh." 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

**I dare not," he said, overcome with his feeling, 

"For it was from me you received your death stroke ;" 
Then while by her side he was tenderly kneeling 
His arms thrown around her the silence she broke: 
"Oh, if you could know 
How dear was that blow ! 
How sweet thus to die by your hand !" Then she spoke: 

"Come nearer, Witchaire ; my love, do you remember 

At my earnest plea you surrendered my vow 
That night, oh, that beautiful night in September? 
That valueless gift I return to you now ; 
No thought of renown. 
No dream of a crown. 
To you evermore, dear Witchaire, I shall bow \ 

"For I am your own, and — and you are far dearer, — 

My first and — my last — love " her soul fled apace. 

And near she had drawn him, still nearer and nearer, 
Until as she died her pale lips touched his face ; 
And there on the field 
Thus perished Matilde 
And Morvan, last king of the bold Breton race. 

Witchaire sadly buried the King and his daughter, 

One grave held them both, and he buried them there, 
Apd he was supposed to have died in the slaughter; 
His lands soon reverted to Le Debonnaire, 
The decades rolled on, 
The darkness and dawn. 
Till men had forgotten the name of Witchaire. 
****** 

87 



i 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

A wretched old man who in no one confided 
Far back as the memory of Hving men ran, 
Alone in a hovel near by had resided, 

And there far removed from the presence of man. 
Unsought and unknown, 
As seasons had flown, 
Had lived, people said, to the century span. 

One day on the grave of the Breton King lying, 

Which then was no more than a low grassy mound. 
The wretched old being, then helpless and dying. 
Alone and apparently speechless, was found; 
To those who passed by 
He gave no reply, 
While helplessly perishing there on the ground. 

They sought to remove him to render assistance 

And spiritual comfort or medical care; 
Refusing attention he offered resistance 

And clung to the spot with the strength of despair. 
As sadly he sighed 
He faintly replied : 
"Oh, let me alone, pray, for I am Witchaire !" 

And then as the sun in the west was declining. 
He died where the flowers of Brittany grew ; 
They opened the grave where Matilde was reclining, 
Where oft he had come in the frost and the dew, 
And tenderly there 
They buried Witchaire 
To rest with the bones of the maid that he slew. 
8, 17, '08. 

88 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



JESS AND I. 

'Twas sometime in March of the year 'sixty-six 

Or may be twelve months or so later, 
Unless I have got my old dates in a mix, 
The time when the lightning played one of its tricks 
And split our old shanty and scattered the bricks 
Reducing the timbers to kindling and sticks ; 
We could not be in a more desperate fix 

Unless in a volcanic crater. 

The house, you remember, the spring we moved there 

Was hardly just what we expected. 
The studding and bricks in the walls were all bare 

And things were quite sadly neglected. 

It was at the best just a regular fright, 

The inside was perfectly fearful, 
We thought if we changed the soft-brick tint to white 

'Twould look just a wee bit more cheerful. 

The dingy old shackie we thought was too small. 

And hence we'd increase its dimension, 
We'd do it that spring and not wait till the fall 

To build us a little extension. 

Our cash account then was a little bit shy. 

And borrow we just wouldn't try it. 
And imported lumber was dreadfully high. 

So high that we just couldn't buy it. 

89 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Somehow Uncle Jess came around to our aid 

And when he and Father consuUed, 
They soon found a way and arrangements were made. 

And no further worry resulted. 

A sawmill was running down there on the creek, 
Somewhere there quite near Uncle Jesse's; 

And so they arranged that inside of a week 
We'd start in or they'd miss their guesses. 



And then they arranged it as quick as you please. 
That precious old Uncle and neighbor, 

That friend in our need, said that he'd give the trees 
And Father could furnish the labor. 



Now, wasn't the precious old fellow a trump ? 

And didn't he know how to play it? 
He gave us the lumber and he kept the stump ; 

What kindness could ever repay it? 



And I was the fellow that went to the mill, 
Yes, back and forth times without number, 

I hauled down a log from the top of the hill 
Then sailed for home laden with lumber. 



Most things of that day cling to memory still. 
Though Jess and I hardly were men quite, 

And though I'm not sure who was running that mill. 
It seems to me it was Joe Penquite. 

90 



I 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And now we have skirmished and cleared up the way 

And come to the time of the story 
When two jolly urchins took part in a play 

That might have been tragic and gory. 

I'd been to the mill and was on my way back 
And stopped as I passed Uncle Jesse's; 

I should have gone on, but alas and alack ! 
I own up, the guilty confesses. 

Ere long Jess and I were absorbed in a game, 
The marbles were flying and popping, 

But whether we won or we lost was the same, 
We recked not and thought not of stopping. 



But something was said or done, I forget what. 
And Jess like a tiger sprang at me, 

He got the true range and he measured the spot 
And like a brave urchin he spat me. 

I cannot tell now, I forgot long ago. 
Just whether I stood or went sprawling. 

But this I remember, as well you may know, 
I wanted to give him a mauling. 



The game was then up and the victory won. 

The story was suddenly ended. 
And I was clean finished and ready to run 

And deeply and sorely offended. 

91 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

I jumped on the wagon and hurried away 
Quite fearful that Jess would yet get me, 

And did not go back there for many a day 
Till care had quite sorely beset me. 

And now I will lead you a gay little dance, 
Somewhat in the style of carousers, 

And call to your memory an old pair of pants. 
Or if you prefer, call 'em trousers. 



Perhaps you remember that John had gone west 

And stayed for a winter or summer, 
And when he got back he was pretty well dressed, 

And we thought that John was a hummer. 

And John was a hummer in more ways than one. 

But little we precious fools knew it, 
When we saw the surface we thought we were done 

But John could see clean through and through it 

John's wardrobe included a vest and some pants 

That I thought decidedly fetching, 
I thought they would wear out, without any chance, 

Without either shrinking or stretching. 



But just like the bank accounts we have to-day. 
According to my way of thinking, 

Those fetching old pants had a funny old way 
Of most inconveniently shrinking. 

92 



I 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

For some unknown reason they grew less and less, 

Perhaps 'twas the tailor that made them; 
John found them too small and he swapped them to Jess, 

If John couldn't wear them he'd trade them. 

But Jess soon found out he was in the same box, 
Those pants would hear nothing of stopping, 

They shrank till they came to the top of his socks, 
Then Jess too was ready for swapping. 

And Jess in his trouble came straightway to me, 

I told him, Oh, yes, I would buy them, 
I didn't know what kind of fit it would be. 

But still I would take them and try them. 



Those funny old trousers the shorter they grew, 

Somewhat as a man drinking cider, 
Grew just a bit thicker when measured straight through. 

They seemed to grow wider and wider. 



I got my old trousers and stowed 'em away, 
I stowed 'em and almost forgot 'em. 

And put on the shrinkers so brave and so gay 
And turned 'em up chic at the bottom. 

You have an old photograph hidden away 
Concealed from my nephews and nieces 

That shows the old trousers that I thought so gay 
And crosswise the jolly old creases. 

93 



' 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The suit was a pretty good bargain, but still, 
Though now it seems funny to say it, 

When we got around to consider the bill 
I didn't have money to pay it. 



And when the day came that I went to the mill, 
When Jess thought I needed a banging, 

That bill for the trousers was unsettled still, 
That bill on the hook was still hanging. 



I made up my mind on that tragical day. 
Though it may seem odd I should say it. 

That Jess should apologize ere I would pay, 
And if he did not, I'd not pay it. 

Thus things drifted on for some five or six years, 

Years full of hard labor and hustle, 
I felt little worry about my arrears. 

But Jess was developing muscle. 

The surface was calm and the sky was serene. 

And nothing appeared to be doing, 
However, beyond the horizon unseen 

A storm was all quietly brewing. 



I went on my way without worry or fear, 
But, gentle folks, that was a blunder, 

That storm was to burst from a sky that was clear. 
And burst like a clap of wild thunder. 

94 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

One Spring Emma Kelly appeared on the scene 
And somehow it came that I met her, 

I thought her quite fair and not over nineteen, 
And somehow I couldn't forget her. 

So over I went and enjoyed her smile, 

And while in the house I was wooing, 
Just outside the yard there beside the wood-pile 

Some very odd things had been doing. 

For Jess was out there and was not sawing wood 

Nor whistling or singing so gaily. 
But with a stern look that foreboded no good 

He cut him a solid shillaly. 



And out in the woods with a dangerous look 
He stood near the road to waylay me. 

He'd get me at last and he'd bring me to book, 
I'd settle the bill or he'd slay me. 



I finished my call and was going away, 
Was mounted and ready for riding, 

When Uncle Jess called me and came out to say 
That Jess was out there and in hiding. 

He told me the rest in a voice plain and clear 
And with no suggestion of honey. 

Then said in a voice that was rather severe : 
"Why haven't you paid him his money?" 

95 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The thing was so boldly and suddenly sprung 
That I was just half way dumbfounded. 

My nerves for a moment were half way unstrung, 
I feared that Jess had me surrounded. 

I told Uncle Jess in a straightforward way, 
But not with much snap did I say it, 

That Jess must apologize ere I would pay, 
And then, and no sooner, I'd pay it. 

And then I could see the wild storm in the skies, 
The dear man was mad and I knew it. 

He said, as I saw there was fire in his eyes : 
"Well, now sir, he never will do it !" 

In substance he plainly proceeded to say, 

I like you and will not desert you, 
You'd better go home by a roundabout way, 

He's mad and I fear he will hurt you. 



Just then I was anxious to go in a rush. 
For I didn't want a good baiting, 

And glanced quite uneasily down at the brush 
Where Jess and his club were in waiting. 

I knew an old road running to the northeast. 
Just then any road was worth trying, 

I tightened the rein and I spurred up the beast 
And down through the woods I went flying. 

96 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

When Uncle Jess brought me to book for the bill 

And scored me for having delayed it, 
To save me from getting another good grill 

I didn't wait long till I paid it. 

I think it was Father delivered the cash, 

I well know that I didn't take it. 
That would have been baring my head to the lash 

Or daring a fellow to break it. 

There comes a sad day into every one's life, 

Unless he's a wee bit celestial, 
That leads into ways of contention and strife, 

Or ways a wee bit more terrestrial. 

I think my bent toward those devious ways 
Must always have been quite potential. 

And oft when I think of my bloody forays 
It seems to have been pestilential. 

My story is done, for the sequel ask Reese, 
For he knew the thing needed righting. 

And he volunteered to negotiate peace 
Or Jess and I would have died fighting. 



97 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



A NIGHT IN 1865. 
Prelude. 

Oh, sing me the songs of the dear olden time. 

The songs of a measure so cheery ; 
So rousing the music, so merry the rhyme, 
So ringing and joyous the jingle and chime, 
So hopeful the heart when the hill was to climb, 
We gazed at its heights with a faith all sublime. 

And thought not to faint or grow weary. 



Oh, give me the days of the long, long ago. 

The days without touches of sadness; 
The days when we dreamed not of sorrow or woe. 
The days when the spirit was all in a glow, 
When warmly and wildly the blood was aflow, 
When earth was rose-tinted with gladness. 

Oh, give me the hours when our childhood was nigh. 

When pleasant and safe was the sailing, 
When never a storm-cloud was seen in the sky, 
And never the heart was disturbed with a sigh, 
When smoothly and safely the moments could fly, 
And calmly, serenely the seasons went by 
When happiness came without failing. 

98 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Oh, bring me the friends of the long ago day, 
The friends that were true and confiding; 

Sweet memories of them in a fadeless array 

Abide in my heart and I bid them to stay ; 

Oh, theirs is the friendship that fades not away, 
The friendship that's true and abiding. 

Oh, bring me the loved ones that then were so near, 

"Whose warm and affectionate greeting 
In tenderest cadences fell on the ear, 
Relieved every sorrow and dried every tear. 
Whose greeting so dear we shall never more hear 
Till hearts shall have ceased from their beating. 



THE NIGHT. 

'Twas early in March in the year 'sixty-five, 

To be more exact, the first Sunday, 
I yoked up the oxen and started to drive 
To Cooper and thought that if I was alive 
And did not get lost or break down, I would strive 
To cover the distance and may be arrive 

Some time in the evening on Monday. 

Not sooner than one and not later than two 

I started northeast o'er the prairie ; 
The mud was quite deep and the roads were all new, 
The wet places many, the dry places few. 
The oxen were leary, I somewhat so, too, 
My whistling was chic but the ring was not true, 
I tried to be brave but I felt pretty blue. 

And vainly I tried to be merry. 

99 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The road ran northeast to the house where Sam Shanks 

Had moved by the year 'sixty-seven ; 
Then north through the lane, then northeast near the banks 
Of streams without culverts of stone or of planks, 
Where mud struck the oxen half way to the flanks, 
Then north by the church that stands first in the ranks 

Of places that point us to heaven. 



To me it was only a church by the way, 

No more than a peach or an apple; 
A place to forget in an hour or a day; 
So whistling a tune as I tried to be gay, 
I turned from the graves where departed ones lay 
And dreamed not how often our footsteps would stray 
In winter's wild storm or in blossoming May, 

Back to our dear Blackwater Chapel. 



I traveled along at a time-killing pace. 

All thought of celerity scorning, 
I figured but little with time or with space, 
For there was no need to make much of a race 
To get before dark to Tom Sitlington's place 

Where I was to stop till the morning. 



Right here I presume it is proper to state 

The oxen — our old Tom and Jerry — 
Were pokey and slow and they went such a gait 
That it was my sad and unfortunate fate 
To reach the Tom Sitlington farmhouse so late 
That darkness was over the prairie. 

ICX) 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

The Sitlingtons, then, I remember full well, 

Lived south of the road quite a distance, 
*Twas almost a quarter, I cannot just tell. 
And just by the road there meandered pell mell 
A branch that long after a long rainy spell 
When rain in unusual quantities fell, 
Flowed on in surprising persistence. 

The road that turned off there, that I was to take, 

Was plain as the nose on your face, sir ; 
I saw the house plainly, knew they were awake, 
The lights were all burning, — this tale is no fake — 
I knew it was Tom's, there could be no mistake. 
Yet 'spite of all this, sir, and this takes the cake, 
I knowingly, willfully made such a break — 
Drove on by the Sitlington place, sir. 

The sky was all murky, the clouds growing black, 

The wind was just howling and wailing; 
A leaky old overcoat covered my back, 
I'd nothing to eat, not a bite of hard tack, 
But giving the oxen a pretty sharp whack 
I tried to decide as I followed the track 
How soon 'twould be raining or hailing. 

You probably think I should stop and explain 

This very unique situation ; 
I fear explanation will all be in vain, 
You likely will think that I hardly was sane, 
I therefore will give you in words that are plain 

A still more unique explanation. 

lOI 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

I stopped at a neighbor's just back on the way 

To get some desired information ; 
He gave it quite kindly, then went on to say 
'Jhat Sitlington's daughter had married that day, 
That quite a big crowd of the young and the gay 
Were meeting that evening to finish the play; 
The house was all lighted to make a display, 
The guests were all gathered in brilliant array, 

And I? I had no invitation. 

But that didn't matter, as well you may know ; 

I knew it would be an intrusion, 
And I was quite awkward, and bashful, and slow, 
And how in the world could a poor fellow go, 
All muddy, unkempt, and the picture of woe, 
To mingle with matrons, young ladies and beaux? 
I made up my mind and I flatly said no. 

And wouldn't revise my conclusion. 

I felt all broke up, I could hardly tell why, 

I wavered in doubt and vexation ; 
I looked at the branch that meandered close by, 
1^ might not be deep, but I'd rather not try, 
I looked at the house, then I looked at the sky, 
I thought of the night and I heaved a deep sigh, 
I whipped up the beasts and I mosied right by. 

So there's my unique explanation. 

Down close to Sam Sprecher's I stopped in a lane. 

Got out and unhitched Tom and Jerry; 
I fed them and fastened them tight with a chain 

102 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And said we \yere there and we there would remain 
Till daylight was come, if it rained let it rain, 
But there we would camp and be merry. 



I got in the wagon, rolled up in a lump, 

And wondered what next would be doing. 
I wouldn't have given a tiddle-de-dump 
To send the stocks downward or up with a jump, 
For I was beginning to feel like a chump, 
And guessing the weather would soon play a trump 
I feared it would show us a pretty bad slump, 
For something appeared to be brewing. 



I sat up awhile, then lay down on the seat, 

But found it too short and too narrow ; 
I buttoned my coat and I drew up my feet. 
And thus I made ready for snow or for sleet. 
Well knowing whatever might come I should meet, 
Must swallow the bitter along with the sweet, 
But wished I had been just a mite more discreet. 
While ceaselessly, coldly the southeast wind beat 
Until I was chilled to the marrow. 



At last I grew weary and dropped oflf to sleep, 

And left my regrets and complaining. 
How long dear old Somnus was minded to keep 
Me wrapt in a slumber so dreamless and deep 
That nought could awake me to worry or weep 
I know not, but know that I felt pretty cheap 
On waking to find it was raining. 

103 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Sometimes it is best that we do what we do 

At once and not wait for reflection, 
So down from that seat in a jiffy I flew, 
Got under it quick, 'twas the best that I knew, 
Lay down on my side as the rain trickled through. 
While wondering if ever a chap was so blue, 

Then fell into sad retrospection. 

I lay there as grumpy as any old mule 

Within Uncle Sam's whole dominion, 
I figured in logic of every known school, 
I figured by every logician-made rule, 
And there as I lay with my side in a pool, 
While inwardly hot although outwardly cool, 
I wisely concluded that I was a fool. 
And never have changed my opinion. 

It likely would tire you if I should relate 

The thoughts that fought wildly for voicing; 
But ere I shall close I quite briefly will state 
That all I could do was to lie there and wait, 
Reproaching myself and bewailing my fate 
Till morning should come and the clouds dissipate. 
I went to Sam Sprecher's, my breakfast I ate, 
The coffee, the ham, and the biscuits were great, 
Then sadder, some wiser, a little bit late, 
I went on my way at the same steady gait. 
But with precious little rejoicing. 
10, 17, '07. 



104 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

A VISITOR'S STORY. 

(From "The Trestle Board.") 

We had finished the refreshments, many speeches had been 

made, 
Many stones had been told us of a light or sombre shade, 
When we called upon a Brother we had never seen before, 
Who was visiting our Lodge, to tell a story if no more. 

He was modest and a stranger and he asked to be excused, 
But the Brethren kept insisting, said they wouldn't be refused. 
Being pressed to give his story he consented and began, 
And was hailed with acclamation, and 'twas thus his story 
ran: 



I was hunting in a region isolated, drear and cold. 
It was years ago, far distant, in a region famed for gold, 
All alone in the Sierras with no friendly face to greet. 
When a raging storm admonished me to seek a safe retreat. 



I concluded to take refuge 'neath a friendly spreading tree, 

When a solitary cabin near at hand I chanced to see. 

Gladdened by its promised shelter I betook me thence in 
haste. 

When a gruesome object stopped me there upon the moun- 
tain waste. 

105 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Stretched beside the narrow pathway, bleaching in the mountain 

air, 
There a skeleton was lying, nothing left but bones and hair, 
I was startled and stood gazing for some moments, lost in 

thought, 
When I felt the dashing rainfall and the lonely cabin sought. 

It was in a fair condition, had been tenantless long time, 

Black and charred the front by burning, hinting at a hidden 

crime. 
Swinging on its creaking hinges half way open stood the door, 
Unimpaired the little window where the light streamed on the 

floor. 

Then I entered, closed the door and found the room was clean 

and dry ; 
At one side there was a fireplace, though 'twas neither wide 

nor high, 
On another a rude bunk, and on some shelves a row of books 
Which had passed their days of usefulness, to judge them by 

their looks. 

This was all, except a table and a stool that had three legs. 
So I doffed my hat and knapsack which I hung up on some pegs, 
Made a fire to dry my clothing and sat down to my repast 
Which I carried in my knapsack, while still louder howled the 
blast. 

When I finished, with some leisure I began to look around. 
When an old and well-worn Bible on the highest shelf I found. 
Turning o'er the leaves at random, soon some writing caught 

my eye. 
Scribbled on the narrow margin, also bloody stains near by. 

1 06 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

This was written plainly: "Tommy, look beneath the Other 

Lights." 
Then I tried to comprehend it, in my fancy's wildest flights. 
j There it was in plainest English, and the signature was 

"George," 
In that long deserted cabin, in that lonely mountain gorge. 

But I soon gave up the problem and continued to explore. 
To discern if further secrets lurked within that cabin door. 
I soon found that there were traces of a tragedy so dark 
Tliat my blood ran cold within me as I traced each blood- 
stained mark. 

There were blood-stains on the woodwork though bedimmed 

and dulled by time, 
There were bullet holes in plenty to reveal a tragic crime. 
In the table where my frugal, scanty supper I had spread 
I discovered many bullets and a broken arrow head. 

When I found the broken arrow I began to see the light — 
The poor miner was surrounded and had fallen in the fight. 
But, then, why had not the Indians burned the cabin to the 

ground ? 
And why too were all its contents in such perfect order found ? 

And was that the miner's skeleton that I had stumbled o'er ? 
And was that the miner's writing in that Bible by the door? 
Had he written that request some hidden meaning to unfold? 
And what was that hidden meaning, would the secret e'er be 
told? 

107 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

So I took the Bible down again and tried but tried in vain 
To unlock the mystic puzzle till my head was racked with pain: 
And I read the printed page in hopes of getting at some clue, 
It was twelfth Ecclesiastes, and familiar, well I knew. 



But too dull to see relation, though I should have seen it there, 
I was thoroughly discouraged and I gave up in despair. 
So I tossed myself upon the bunk and soon was sound asleep, 
While the storm was raging 'round me like the raging of the 
deep. 

In the night the storm abated and the stars appeared on high ; 
When I woke the birds were singing and the sun was in the sky. 
While I lay and pondered over what I'd seen the night before, 
A broad beam of yellow sunlight slowly crept across the floor. 

As it penetrated further in the corner of the room, 
And expelled the morning dimness and the slow-receding gloom, 
And unconsciously I watched it, I beheld another sight 
That so thrilled me that I bounded from the bunk and stood 
upright. 

On the floor close in the corner brightened by the sunbeam's 

glare. 
Rudely carved there was the figure of the Compass and the 

Square. 
Quick as lightning all the meaning of that writing thrilled me 

through, 
"Look beneath the Other Lights," and there they were before 

my view. 

io8 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Down I went upon my knees and quickly tore the board away, 
Lifted from its place a stone and there a faded letter lay. 
It was dim and hardly legible, all covered o'er with mold, 
And beneath the faded paper was a jar of shining gold. 

I could scarcely read the writing, being written in a scrawl, 
As if done in haste or danger of the deadly rifle ball, 
As if under strong emotion, interspersed with sobs and sighs, 
But I read the words that follow while the tears were in my 
eyes: 

"Tom, the Indians have surrounded me, I'm wounded and must 

die; 
If you live to find this treasure which I've managed to lay by. 
Send it to my little daughter, little Mary, sweet and fair, 
She's at Holden, Massachusetts, Tom. I ask this on the 

square." 

Then there followed a "God bless you," and a last and long 

farewell. 
And the name was signed, "George Langdon." Nothing more 

the page could tell. 
Leaping to my feet in rapture and so thrilled with this appeal, 
I held up my hand to heaven and exclaimed for woe or weal : 

"Rest in peace, my Brother Langdon, your dear child shall have 

her gold. 
Though I go on foot to bear it and this sheet bedimmed with 

mold." 
And in truth there was a fortune in that jar of glittering ore. 
And along with it the Bible from that tragic scene I bore. 

109 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

But my story is not ended. Near the cabin on the ground, 
By its side a rusty gun, another skeleton I found. 
My imagination sought the truth and thus I worked it out, 
George and Tom were fellow miners and their mines were close 
about. 

They had trod the Oriental road together and full well 
Loved and trusted one another till that fatal day befell. 
Tom had gone off on an errand, and while waiting his return 
George was set upon by Indians who had come to kill and burn. 

He defended his possessions till he knew his end was nigh. 
Then he wrote these strange directions when he felt that he 

must die. 
He would save his little hoardings, fruit of many a toilsome day, 
For his darling little daughter in her home so far away. 

So he wrote those mystic words upon the margin of the leaf 
Where he knew his friend would turn to seek condolence in his 

grief, 
Knowing well that trusty friends alone its purport e'er could 

read, 
And that only trusted Brethren would his last request e'er heed. 

Then the Indians fired the cabin, but the fire went out by 

chance, 
Or a waterspout extinguished it and stopped their savage dance, 
Then they met and murdered Tom and left his body there 

exposed, 
George crawled forth for help and perished and the trage«!y 



was closed. 



no 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Then I brought their bones together and a h'ttle grave I made, 
And I buried them in sadness there within the cabin's shade. 
And I read the solemn Scripture "then shall dust return to da^t, 
And the spirit shall return to Him" whose ways are always just. 

They had traveled the same rugged road, together they ha J d"ed. 
So I thought it but befitting that they rest there side by side, 
And the board on which the "Other Lights" were rudely carved 

by George, 
I set up, and left them sleeping in that lonely mountain gorge. 

In due time I found the daughter now to woman's stature 

grown, 
With her aunt 'gainst want and sickness waging warfare all 

alone ; 
In her hands I placed her fortune, every ounce of shining gold, 
And the Bible with the letter covered o'er with stains and mold. 

Still my story is not ended, for the best is yet to tell, 
I remained to lend assistance till I knew the daughter well ; 
So attractive did I find her that I could not leave her side 
Till the Mason's darling daughter had become my lovely bride, 
lo, lo, '07. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



OLD SUMACH. 

Oh ! sumach, dear sumach that stood by the wood, 

Where prairie and wood came together; 
How precious the spot where the old shackle stood, 
'Way back in the days when the people were good. 
When people delighted to live as they should, 
As people could live at this day if they would, 
The days when we had all the fun that we could. 
No matter how stormy the weather. 



There bonnie dear Tom wore a white overcoat. 
My pants were of jeans bright and yellow; 

And Sam's jolly smile always captured the vote, 

And with his red hair was a sure antidote 

To blues and the like in those dear days remote. 
For Sam was a jolly good fellow. 

I went to their home and we studied at night 

And toiled o'er the work of the morning; 
For Tommy was always so quick and so bright 
He'd capture a thought when 'twas clear out of sight 
And show us dull boys we were not in the fight, 
He cleared up the way and he let in the light, 
He brought down the game and he brought it down right 

With never a moment of warning. 

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And close by my side all the long winter through 

Sat Joe with a heart warm and tender; 
More genial each day and more joyous he grew, 
And closer and closer together we drew, 
Cut capers and didoes as boys always do, 
Cut holes in the wall so the road we could view, 
Cut Gordian knots and our book covers, too. 
And labored with tenses and gender. 

There ne'er was a boy with a heart in his breast 

More genial, more loving, no, never ; 
He gave to the world what was brightest and best, 
A word and a smile to the sore and distressed, 
With bonnie good cheer his whole soul was possessed; 
None ever was sad when dear Joe was his guest. 
Dear Joe who is now in the Mansions of Rest 

Where brightness and cheer dwell forever. 

And then there was Polk, dear delightful old Polk, 

With smiles and with dimples a plenty; 
The handsomest man among all our dear folk. 
The boy against whom ne'er a word was e'er spoke, 
The boy with a character sturdy as oak. 
The man, I opine, who has never gone broke, 
(Dear bonnie old fellow, I'm speaking no joke, 
So can't you just loan me a twenty?) 

And Mattie was there, speak the word soft and low. 

Lest others than angels should hear it ; 
Fair Mattie that only the angels may know, 
Too gentle to tarry with mortals below, 

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She went when the earth was white-mantled with snow. 
She went where the rarest and fairest ones go, 
So pure and so gentle her spirit. 

And Bettie, so quiet, so noble and true, 

And Emma so bright and so clever; 
And Lizzie, so bonnie, with eyes that were blue, 
Her beautiful sister who came there once, too. 
Oh ! she was the fairest — but this will not do. 
For this is a story I'll never tell you. 

For love or for money, no, never. 

And Robert, dear Robert, magnificent boy, 

A boy wholly given to duty ; 
A boy in whose heart there was nought of alloy. 
Whose whole aim it was to disseminate joy, 
The right to build up and the wrong to destroy. 
And never to hinder, to vex or annoy, 

A life unsurpassed in its beauty. 

And William, my best friend of all in that day, 

A friend, too, of all round about him ; 
We roamed in the wood when our spirits were gay, 
We sat side by side when the rest were at play, 
We walked in affection that nothing could stay, 
Till death's cruel summons called William away. 

And lone has the way been without him. 

Oh! jolly old rollicking, rickety shack. 

The dearest old spot on the planet ; 
The place of all places to which I look back. 
Where even the slowest went lickety-whack ; 

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I'd rather tread there though 'twere long gone to rack 
Than dwell at the top of a sky-scraping stack 
Constructed of marble and granite. 

Oh ! jolly old weather-stained, storm-beaten shack, 

With sumach and hazel brush near it; 
With boards up and down and a strip on each crack, 
Though roasting in front while we froze at the back; 
There all was contentment with nothing to lack, 

A thousand sweet memories endear it. 

Oh ! glad were the days when we knew the old shack. 

And dear were the hearts that were in it; 
The Doctor possessed the desirable knack 
To win every heart though his rule was not slack, 
We always pushed forward and never turned back, 
We pulled for dear life every minute. 

The Doctor, well posted and sharp as a tack. 

Detested a sham or a swindle ; 
When noon-day was come and we'd eaten our snack 
And finished the hour with our racket and clack, 
And Doctor was ready to summon us back 
He took down a stick that he kept on a rack 
And larruped the side of the bonnie old shack, 
And larruped again with a lickety-whack 

Till in we came lickety-brindle. 

Oh ! riproaring, racy, delightful old shack. 

Where never was envy or scorning ; 
Not far from threescore now, alas and alack, 

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Our weary old burdens we soon shall unpack, 
And enter the valley whence no one comes back, 
To sleep till that glorious morning. 

And oh ! when we wake, when we wake may we sec. 

Up there where no more we shall sever, 
Among the bright mansions for you and for me, 
One dear little shackie, so bonnie and wee. 
With holes in the walls and a boy full of glee, 
A fair little maiden from sorrow set free, 
And dear ones to dwell in that home that shall be, 
To dwell there forever and ever. 

Dear vanished old sumach and vanishing crowd, 

How tender the ties that then bound us; 
Away from the giddy, the gay and the proud, 
Away from the learned, the wise and endowed, 
Away from earth's symphonies swelling and loud. 
We soon shall have nought but the pall and the shroud, 
With shadows and darkness around us. 

How warm are our hearts and the feelings that swell. 

How tender the ties that still bind us; 
We'll soon reunite and forever shall dwell 
With loved ones redeemed, oh, glad story to tell, 
And dwelling with Him who all things doeth well. 

Leave shadows and darkness behind us. 

The years that have fled since the long ago day 

We left the old schoolhouse in sorrow. 
The friends kind and true that have vanished away 
Like flowers that blossom so soon to decay, 

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The hearts that in winter are warm as in May, 
That cling to us fondly for yea or for nay, 
All may be forgotten, but sumach will stay 
And live in our memories forever and aye. 
Whatever befall us to-morrow. 

How dim and uncertain the vista appears 

Back where the dear schooldays are sleeping; 
The whole way is strewn with the wreckage of years, 
Unrealized hopes and unjustified fears, 
With laughter and joy and with sorrow and tears. 
With sunlight, with shadows and weeping. 

Oh ! springtime of life, precious heyday of youth. 

Thy flowrets forever are faded ; 
We sigh for their fragrance, but vainly, in sooth, 
Till all be renewed in the Gardens of Truth 

In realms that death never invaded. 

And now as I listen it seems that I hear. 

While for the old days I am sighing, 
An echo of music so sweet to the ear, 
As softly it floats from that far-away year, 
Awaking old memories tender and dear 
Of loved ones then youthful but now in the sere ; 
The music is silent, bereft of its cheer. 

And soon will the echoes be dying. 

The beauty of morning long, long ago fled, 

The shadows of evening are growing; 
The moments of springtime and summer are sped, 

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Ere long will the winter frosts fall on the head, 
Ere long shall we hear the grim harvester's tread 
And reap, as a sage has so truthfully said, 
The harvest we long have been sowing. 

And now I must bring this long scrawl to a close. 

And send it along or else burn it; 
And which would be better the dear only knows; 
I guess, though, I'll risk it, so forward it goes. 
Away from the land of content and repose. 
Where nature her beauty so richly bestows. 
Away from the land where the orange tree grows, 
The land of the lily, the land of the rose. 
Away through the poppy fields, over the snows, 
To where our old sumach friends, half the year froze. 
The other half dream of some worse kind of woes; 
If for your old chummies your friendship still glows, 
And warmly the tide of affection still flows, 
Send onward this letter the way the wind blows; 
But if my good plan you're inclined to oppose. 
And if at this letter you turn up your nose, 

Then wrap the thing up and return it. 
4, I, '06. 



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THE HOME ON THE HILL. 

Yes, I recognize the old home 'mid the trees 
Where cedars and maples are growing, 

Where oft I sat watching the birds and the bees 
While soft summer breezes were blowing. 

Where often I sat when the earth was in bloom 
And dreamed of the years that were coming. 

Or pensively lay and inhaled the perfume 
And heard the gay grasshopper drumming. 

We gazed at the glorious tints of the dawn 
And saw the whole heavens illuming, 

Or followed the butterfly over the lawn 
And out where the clover was blooming. 



Where once a gay apple seed flipped out and sped 

At J. S.'s noggin and spat it; 
He said that I hit not a hair of his head, 

No wonder, just run and look at it. 



*Twas late in the winter, eighteen sixty-three, 

Or when early March winds were blowing 
The year my wild oats grew as high as could be 
And yet never paid for the sowing. 

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And I am not sure that it ever does pay, 
But when we are young we don't know it, 

We seek for the crop we can garner to-day 
And have a good time while we sow it. 



But here I am preaching a sermon to you, 

Excuse me, I didn't intend it, 
That ill would repay you for that pretty view 

When you were so kind as to send it. 

'Twas March, as I said, may be earlier still, 
And I was fifteen and quite merry. 

The first time I saw that old home on the hill 
Then standing quite out on the prairie. 



The house was of logs — this is only a guess — 
Just such as the writer was born in, 

I think it was logs, go ask Mr. J. S., 

Like those we sometimes put the corn in. 



But logs or no logs it was there all the same, 
And kept the wee family together. 

And whether of logs, or of brick or of frame 
It kept out the wind and the weather. 



And south of the house was the old roadway then 
And west of the house was the stable, 

The farming land was — well, I just dinna ken, 
I've gone just as far as I'm able. 

1 20 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

But east, north and west there arose on the sight 
The boundless, the billowy prairie, 

When in from the west I came driving one night 
An ox team, our old Tom and Jerry. 

The lad that was with me, the son of a gun, 

Was jovial and genial and jolly, 
And always was ready to join in my fun 

And often, alas, in my folly. 

The house was quite full of forlorn refugees. 
But still they made room for my Aunty, 

But Newton and I could lodge under the trees 
Or hike for another man's shanty. 



Imagine, Rowena, "Stay out in the breeze" 

That softly was blowing a warning, 
"Stay out on the prairie, stay out if you freeze, 

And wait for the dawn of the morning." 

They didn't say that but they might just as well, 
They said they were just overflowing. 

And we saw the rest, there was no need to tell, 
So we said we'd better be going. 

Down east we saw nought but the tops of some trees, 

The rest was but sheer desolation. 
So we thought it better to stay there and freeze 

Than risk a far worse situation. 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

We drove in the barnyard and unhitched our team. 
Somewhere there just east of the stable, 

And ate a good supper with sugar and cream 
At dear Mr. Fleming's old table. 

Then Newton and I left the poor refugees 
And hied ourselves back to the wagon, 

And then to be sure that we wouldn't quite freeze 
We took a slight turn at the flagon. 



That turn at the flagon will keep bobbing up, 

So I will just stop and explain it; 
Though yielding in boyhood I toyed with the cup, 

Not once, no not once did I drain it. 



For Father advised me ere it was too late, 
Dear man, I meant he should not know it. 

And under his guidance I kept pretty straight 
And managed quite soon to outgrow it. 



And though I'm ashamed of the record I made, 
'Twas only three times I consented, 

'Twas only three times I was near the down grade. 
Yet forty-three years I've repented. 



'Twas only three times that I tackled the rye, 
Yet that was just three times too often, 

I always walked straight but I stepped pretty high 
And stopped ere I got to my coffin. 

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Sometimes I've been down and sometimes I've been up. 
And sometimes I've been pretty frisky, 

But since 'sixty-three I've steered clear of the cup, 
A resolute foeman to whisky. 

If not in my youth, then, ah, there is the rub, 

Good people, right there is the question, 
It might have come later and raised a hubbub 

And been of much harder digestion. 



Perhaps it was well that I journeyed that way 
And saw and escaped dissipation, 

For rising above it I rose there to stay. 
And live far above all temptation. 



Perhaps you will say as you ponder this o'er: 
"It might have been well to conceal it. 

You've kept your own counsel four decades or more 
What good does it now to reveal it?" 



Perhaps you are right and perhaps I am wrong, 

At any rate I will not press it, 
But when we get tripped as we journey along, 

It humbles our pride to confess it. 



I knew you good people would shy at the tale 

About that suspicious old flagon, 
And now I've explained I'll go back to the trail, 

Where were we? — Oh, yes, at the wagon. 

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We found an old sheepskin, some carpets and traps, 
Though limited somewhat in number, 

And you may be sure we were pretty cold chaps 
When finally ready for slumber. 

In fixing- our bed of the old household truck 

We did just the best we were able, 
Yet up through the middle there stubbornly stuck 

The leg of an old kitchen table. 



And sundry sharp corners were under our backs 

And divers old pots and a kettle, 
While March winds aforesaid blew in through the cracks 

And constantly tested our mettle. 



I slept and I woke and I wriggled about, 
I slept and I dreamed it was snowing, 

I shook till I thought that my bones would drop out 
While waiting for chanticleer's crowing. 



But Newt soon awoke pretty jolly and gay 
And cheered up my spirits all drooping. 

His genial good nature was all in a play 
And soon we were laughing and whooping. 



Thus gaily we drove all our sorrow away 
And wished it would nevermore find us, 

And then we were oflf at the dawn of the day 
And left the old farmhouse behind us. 

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Just fifteen years later I came to that home 
And glad was my heart when I found it, 

And since then no matter how far I may roam, 
My memory clings fondly around it. 

Till sighing shall cease and the tongue shall grow still, 

Till spirit shall cease its repining, 
My heart will still cling to its friends on the hill 

As ivy clings close in entwining. 
I, 8, '08. 



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CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 

I assure you, dear friends, it was pleasant 
To receive from my class such a present. 

And more valued, I say. 

Was your gift of to-day 
Than the gift of a king to a peasant. 

Many thanks, my dear friends, for the token 
And the kind thoughtful words you have spoken; 

It was such a surprise. 

And the tears filled my eyes 
When I knew the old ties were unbroken. 

But you know that my work was a pleasure, 
And I gathered invaluable treasure 

From the years that we wrought 

And the labor we brought, 
And you know that you helped beyond measure. 

And you know that you all stood together 
Whether mild or inclement the weather, 

And the spirit of love 

From the Father above 
Bound your hearts like a bond and a tether. 

If our bark was a moment unsteady 
Gentle hands and unerring were ready 

To restore it to right. 

Whether heavy or light, 
And protect it from current or eddy. 
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There was never a hand to delay it, 
There was never a heart to betray it, 

But you pulled with your might 

By the day or the night, 
And no heart ever sought to dismay it. 

But the banner of Christ floated o'er you, 
And His pathway shone brightly before you, 
And you followed His word 
While your loins were begird 
With His promise to keep and restore you. 

May your faith in your Master ne'er leave you. 
May the snares of the world ne'er deceive you ; 

As you toil in the way 

Ere you come to that day 
May no sin ever hinder or grieve you. 

May you sing in the way as you're going. 
And rejoice as the seed you are sowing; 

May your day and your night 

Be replete with delight 
And your faith be expanding and growing. 

May the God of the Christian e'er guide you. 
May no sorrow or ill e'er betide you, 

And, my friends of the class, 

In the years that shall pass 
May our Master stand ever beside you. 
12, 25, '00. 



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THE OLD DINNER HORN. 

Oh, do you recall it, the little tin horn? 

Ah, well, very well I remember; 
When far, far afield in the meadow or corn, 
With spirit aglee or with spirit forlorn, 
Our labor grew near the fag-end of the morn, 
Of all earthly sounds to persuade or to. warn, 
Its tone was the sweetest heard since I was born, 

In April, in June or November. 

Oh, glad was the heart and so swift were the feet. 

And blithely our spirits were flowing; 
The forest was gay and the flowers were sweet 
Whenever its welcome tones called us to eat, 

When that dear old horn we heard blowing. 

Sometimes in my musings I picture the day 

When first that old horn was set blowing. 
The bonnie wee girls that came in from their play 
And wanted to tote the new tooter away. 
Their dress not so modern and eke not so gay, 
The same girls whose heads are now sprinkled with gray, 

Who soon td their rest will be going. 

Or was it before any bairnies had come 

That olden time home to make brighter? 
Ere Mother's old spinning-wheel started to hum, 

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Ere trouble and toil were the chief of life's sum, 
Ere girlhood gave place to life's weary humdrum, 
Those years when her burdens were lighter? 

It may be our grandmother brought it along 
One day when she came with her sewing; 
While in from the hayfield were wafted a song. 
The ring of the crum-crick in merry ping-pong, 
The swish of the scythe in arms steady and strong. 
From where the haymakers were mowing. 

And whence came the money that settled the bill? 

Or was the bill paid in hard money? 
It might be that Father rode over the hill 
Conveying an old-fashioned grist to the mill 
And eke to the store with a hearty good will 

Some eggs or a few pounds of honey. 

And when at the eve he came home from the mill 
And brought home the grist from the milling. 
He brought the old horn to his bride on the hill 
Awaiting him there with her heart all athrill. 
Dressed plainly in linsey with never a frill, 
But ready for cooing and billing. 

And then for amusement they tested it there. 

While standing outside in the gloaming. 
With hair-raising screeches and heathenish blare. 
Alarming the neighbors and splitting the air. 
And giving the cattle and horses a scare 
That sent them skyhooting and roaming. 

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Gone, gone is our grandmother, gone to her rest, 

Who chided us times without number; 

But chiding or blessing she did for the best, 

She did her whole duty at Heaven's behest. 

She slumbers at rest in the Isles of the Blest, 

And peaceful and sweet is her slumber. 

And gone are the couple that stood by the gate 

And blew the old horn in the gloaming; 
They toiled for the bairnies both early and late. 
When young in their prime and when old and sedate, 
They went at the call, they submitted to fate. 
And long are the years to the bairnies who wait. 
And weary their feet in their roaming. 

And weary the heart and so dreary the day, 
And lonely the road we are going; 

And slowly the feet tread the long, dusty way. 
The flowers are dead and the forest is gray, 
The music is sad, touch the chords as they may. 
And hushed are the voices forever and aye 
We heard when the old horn was blowing. 

And gone is the horn with our halcyon days. 

Its dust with our lost ones is sleeping; 
It vanished away in the mist and the haze, 
Its echoes are dead, buried deep in the maze 
Of childhood's sweet land, where we wistfully gaze, 
As fade its fair heights in the sun's dying rays, 
While nought comes to us but our weeping. 

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THE COLUMNS. 

(Missouri University Building, burned some years ago.) 
Yes, there are the columns, still standing upright 

With ivy vines clambering o'er them ; 
They stand there as grim through the day and the night 

As when we first stood there before them. 

It's thirty-three years, now, since you and I trod 

The pathway that guided us to them, 
And many dear fellows now under the sod 

Were dear to us there where we knew them. 

What measure of bitterness, sorrow and tears, 

What downfalls and what dissipation 
Have come to that crowd in those thirty-three years ! 

What honors and what elevation ! 

Oh, would that men stood, that we ever could stand 

As firm as those columns of granite, 
As true to the purpose for which we were planned 

And sent to possess this old planet. 

Then, when this old world shall be crumbled to dust 

And sent to the limbo of chaos, 
We grandly would stand with the true and the just 

Where sin never more could betray us. 

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But men are unlike the firm columns of stone, 

Unmoved in the sweep of the ages, 
They're more like the clay or the chaff that is blown, 

Swept off by each tempest that rages. 



You ask me where now are Court Yantis and Jay, 
Choate, Wheeler, Babb, Mike and the others, 

Louis Hoffman, Rash Feagans, Buck Berry and Gray, 
And Sherman, all dear as our brothers? 



Some linger here yet but their footsteps are slow. 
While quietly seeking for knowledge. 

And some are promoted, as you and I know. 
And passed to a more advanced college. 



They sat with the Sophs and the Freshmen no more, 
Their ties with the Juniors were broken; 

They distanced the Seniors, they passed on before; 
Their final farewells were all spoken. 



They sang a new song as they hasted away. 
They said their goodbyes at the station, 

The moment had come, and they could not delay. 
To meet a new matriculation. 



All pale were their faces and dim were their eyes. 
And folded their hands when they started, 

They silently went to that school in the skies 
And left their friends here broken-hearted. 

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They'll never come back from that school far away, 
Though ceaseless and sore is our yearning, 

Matriculates enter but graduates stay, 
Nor sigh for the day of returning. 

But were they all ready to enter that school? 

Were some without due preparation? 
Dear fellows, they had to submit to the rule, 

And went to the examination. 

Dear fellows! We do not know how they stood there, 

How many of them were accepted. 
How many of them were shut out in despair. 

Marked down and shut out as rejected. 

Matriculates there had to do their own work. 

There was no depending on cronies. 
No chances were given to cheat or to shirk 

Or dig out their lessons with "ponies." 

Their entrance depended on labor well done 
Through years of hard toil and devotion, 

On self-sacrifice since their work had begun 
Without any thought of promotion. 

And soon we shall stand where those dear fellows stood 

And either be passed or rejected. 
With no opportunity then to make good 
The chances we may have neglected. 
I. 8. '08. 



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THE CRITIC. 

What WHS it you said, Tom? 'at Rube writ a book? 

That chucklehead — that little fakir! 
Why, that fellow wus, ef you jedge by his look, 

Es dull es a second-rate baker! 

Why, him write a book, Tom — that blamed little fool ! 

By ginger! now, who would 'a' thought it? 
That same little chap we had teachin' our school ? 

Ef I'd brung a dollar I'd bought it. 

Why, Rube used to run an old thrashin' machine ; 

He wusn't no sort of a schemer — 
The quietest feller 'at ever I seen, 

And seemed like a sort of a dreamer. 



He'd set on the horsepower hours at a time, 
While all of the rest wus a-jestin', 

And read an old book or a foolish, old rhyme, 
While we wus all settin' and restin'. 



They said 'at he'd never git on in the world, 
And never would be wuih a dollar ; 

And 'lowed 'at his banner would ever be furled, 
And him led around by the collar. 

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And, somehow, I thought 'at the boys wus half right; 

I didn't think Rube wus a winner; 
I thought 'at he'd never win much of a fight, 

And some day'd be short on his dinner. 

I wouldn't suppose 'at his book's very much, 

Ef jedged by the feller 'at writ it; 
Might tell of his workin' and teachin' and such; 

He ought 'a' worked on and not quit it. 

And, shucks ! I don't guess he'll win very much fame ; 

It won't be no hard job to tote it ; 
Jist wait till them critics gits hold of his name ; 

He'll wish then he never had wrote it. 



And this is the book 'at the wooden-head writ ! 

By jing! let me have it on credit; 
I'll read it clean through before ever I quit — 

Then cuss myself 'cause I have read it, 

II, 8, '08. 



'3.S 



THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



JOHN OF TYRONE. 

Old John of Tyrone, dear old John of Tyrone, 
Come out of the silence, come unto your own, 

And tell us the tales in your keeping; 
The stories they told you when you were a chap 
And all cuddled down in your fair mother's lap, 

Told often in sighing and weeping. 

Oh, where were your grandfathers, John of Tyrone, 
When William of Orange came unto his own 

Amid much confusion and bustle? 
Stood they with our William when over he came 
To win him a crown and establish his name, 

And give bonnie Jamie the hustle ? 

When England's false friends were debasing the coin, 
When England's true monarch was winning the Boyne, 

Where were they ? Out houghing the cattle ? 
Were they with our William when Boyne was at flood 
And William for England shed Protestant blood? 

Or with Bonnie Jamie in battle? 

And when the Stuart star in adversity set 
When exile and penury were to be met, 

Was that the sad day of their weeping? 
Or rode they in triumph as William passed by 
With England's proud banner unfurled to the sky. 

Where William's grave cohorts were sweeping? 

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And when those brave soldiers for country and God, 
Shut up within walls of old Erin's green sod, 

Fought nobly in old Londonderry, 
Did they stand for William, your worthy old sires, 
Did they warn their comrades with bright beacon fires 

That blazed from old Ulster to Kerry? 

Were they with the heroes that won in the fight. 
Or were they cut down ere the end was in sight 

By slaughter, disease or starvation? 
Perhaps they returned to their families to tell 
The tale of the siege and their comrades that fell, 

A story of war's desolation. 

When gallant Prince Rupert rode into the fray. 
When Cavalier troopers were gaining the day. 

Was that your old ancestors' inning? 
Rode they with the Prince as he fought for the crown? 
Rode they with the Prince when his foemen went down? 

And triumphed they when he was winning? 

And where were your ancestors, speak out and say, 
When Cromwell's grim troopers dismounted to pray. 

And went from their knees to their fighting? 
Did they for the king and the monarchy fight? 
Or did they with Oliver cleave with their might, 

The foes of their Commonwealth smiting? 

And when the Armada was swept on your shores 
And broken and pillaged and robbed of its stores. 
As wildly the tempests were brewing, 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Did they smite the jewel-decked grandees of Spsun, 
And harry and torture and murder for gain? 
Was that the red work of their doing? 

Or were they at home by their fanes and their fires 
Protecting their families, your good Celtic sires, 

And giving their children instruction, 
While baser men down by the tempest-wracked main 
Were luring and looting the galleys of Spain 

And dealing out death and destruction ? 

And tell us, old man, when the heretic creed 
Swept in by the breeze that blew over the Tweed 

And paralyzed Erin with terror, 
Came they with the fagot, the sword and the spear 
To slice away heretic finger or ear 

And save Papal Erin from error? 

Or were they consumed by a Calvinist zeal 
And were they impelled to use Protestant steel 

To forward the work of the Spirit? 
Perhaps they believed that all things were foreknown, 
The Word was ordained for the chosen alone, 

And no non-elect need to hear it. 

Come out of the silence, old John of Tyrone, 
Come out where your children are waiting alone 

To hear you tell over your story, 
The story you heard in the vanishing years 
Of torture and death, and of sorrow and tears, 

Of deeds that were tragic and gory. 
5, 28, '08. 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



LA CASTADA, 

Have you been to the vale 
Sweeping up from Glendalc 
When the wind blew a gale 
In wild La Caiiada ? 

Have you wandered at will 
When the night wind was still 
And your heart was athrill 
In the vale, La Caiiada ? 

Have you sat half asleep 
Where the shadows were deep 
When the summer nights sweep 
O'er dark La Canada? 

Oh ! the fairest that grows 
Is the soft-tinted rose, 
When the summer wind blows 
In bright La Canada. 

There the flowers never die. 
There the mountains are high 
And their peaks touch the sky 
Around La Canada. 

There the piteous wail 
Of the unmated quail 
Strikes the heart like a flail 
In fair La Cafiada. 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

There the mocking bird trills 
All the music that thrills 
The glad heart in the hills 
'Round dear La Caiiada. 

And the turtle doves greet 
Their fair mates when they meet 
With their cooings so sweet 
In sweet La Canada. 

And the lights of Mount Lowe 
In the summer nights glow 
Where the wildflowers blow 
By fair La Caiiada. 

There the splendor enthralls, 
And the light grandly falls 
On the Gould castle walls, 
By fair La Canada. 

Oh ! the mist-shrouded hills 
And the grandeur that fills 
Every heart till it thrills 
In fair La Canada. 

Not a sad bell may toll, 
Not a shadow may roll 
O'er the undisturbed soul. 
In calm La Canada. 

There no tear dims the eye 

And no heart heaves a sigh 

Where the summer birds fly 

In fair La Caiiada. 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

And no mortal may weep 
Where the silent years sleep, 
As the centuries sweep 
O'er fair La Canada. 

There the soul is at rest, 
And the spirit is blest 
In the vale we love best. 
In dear La Cafiada. 

And the day and night seem 
To glide by like a dream 
Where the softest moonbeam 
Falls on La Canada. 

There is nought that will cloy, 
There's no trace of alloy 
In that valley of joy, 

The sweet La Cafiada. 

'Tis an unhappy day 

When the sad heart must say, 

As it wanders away : 

"Farewell ! La Canada !" 



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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



RACHEL. 

Where Salem's sun was shining, 

There 'neath the oak tree's shade 
Where hillside vines were twining 
Fair Rachel's grave was made. 
And flowers rare 
Perfumed the air 
Where Jacob's wife was laid. 

When Salem's sons were sleeping, 
And Ephrath wrapped in night, 
Old Isaac's son was weeping 
For Rachel lost to sight; 
His joy was fled, 
With Rachel dead 
His home had lost its light. 

His heart was bowed with sorrow 

That pressed upon him sore, 

For him no bright to-morrow 

Should e'er be kept in store; 

Dear days beguiled 

With Laban's child, 

Alas, should dawn no more. 

And through his memory sweeping 

Pressed thoughts too far to tell 
When he his flock was keeping 
Ere sorrow's day befell. 
The day when he 
In youthful glee 
Kissed Rachel at the well. 
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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Those words untruly spoken 

In Isaac's dimming sight, 
Those moral canons broken, 
And juggling so with right 
When troughs were filled 
And boughs were pilled 
And cattle specked with white. 

When Salem's sun was shining 
Where Gihon's waters swept 
And Jacob's heart repining 
For her who sweetly slept. 
He reared a stone 
And left alone 
The one he sorely wept. 

But darker years must hasten 

Ere Jacob's heart was whole, 
And deeper sorrows chasten 
Ere he should reach the goal ; 
Long poignant years 
Sad, bitter tears 
Must chasten Jacob's soul. 
5, 28, '08. 



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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 



THE DREAMER. 

I stood by the Judsean mountains 
Where terebinths spread to the sky, 

Where poppy-worts grew by the fountains, 
And saw the glad dreamer go by. 

Where Dothan's fair meadows were growing. 
Where well-favored cattle were lowing. 

And brother-hearts callous as steel, 

I heard a heart-rending appeal. 

Where Ishmaelite rovers were lying 

Beneath the cold Syrian sky, 
Where Israel's lone captive was sighing 

Ascended a piteous cry. 

From Potiphar's house with its glory 
There went up a cry of despair, 

Till faith gently whispered the story 
That Israel's Jehovah was there. 

Then humbly, in byways of duty. 
Consoling each grief and each sigh. 

Then clothed with all grandeur and beauty. 
Again the glad dreamer went by. 
5, 28, '08. 



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SANTA ANA COMMANDERY, K. T. 

You may think of me when you please, men, 

Down there by the sunlit sea. 
But down where we took our degrees, men. 

Is a bonnie old place for me. 

You may care not whether I float, men, 

When my bark sails out to sea, 
But down where we rode the goat, men, 

How merry we used to be ! 

Some time when your spirits droop, men. 

Or when every heart is free, 
When you whoop it up with a whoop, men. 

Oh, sing a merry song for me. 

We shall soon be sailing away, men, 

Far over the sunlit sea, 
Do you know where you're going. Oh, say, men. 

Do you know where your port will be ? 

Over yonder beneath the trees, men. 

In a lodge where the heart is free, 
Where we take our higher degrees, men, 

Don't you fail to meet with me. 

9. 7, '08. 



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TOM. 

You may snub me from the start, Tom, 
You may pass me by with a frown, 

You may give me the marble heart, Tom, 
You may cut me and turn me down ; 

But I'll swear by you to the end, Tom, 
Though you never should heed my call, 

I will mark you down as my friend, Tom, 
As the bonniest friend of all. 



I may never again hear your voice, Tom, 
Full of cheer as it used to be, 

But how often it made me rejoice, Tom, 
In the days when the heart was free. 

And you never may read these lines, Tom, 
You may scatter them forth in the cold, 
, But as long as the spirit repines, Tom, 
You will be my good friend as of old. 

How often our hearts are glad, Tom, 
On account of the friends we choose. 

How often our hearts are sad, Tom, 
On account of the friends we lose. 

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THE PARCHMENT AND OTHER POEMS 

Dear days when you were a boy, Tom, 
Long lost with the vanished years, 

That season without alloy, Tom, 
That never knew care or tears. 

Some day we shall come to the end, Tom, 
Over there on the sunset shore. 

And then we'll be friend and friend, Tom, 
As we were in the happy yore, 
lo, II, '07. 



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DEC 26 1908 



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